AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 



AUVERGNE 

AND ITS PEOPLE 



BY 

FRANCES M. GOSTLING 



WITH EIGHT ILLUSTRATIONS IN COLOUR 

BY LEOPOLD LELEE 

THIRTY-TWO OTHER ILLUSTRATIONS AND A MAF 



NEW YORK 

THE MAGMILLAN COMPANY 
1911 






K^ 



YKINTKJ3 BY 

TURNBULL AND SPEARS, 

EDINBUKGH 






I DEDICATE THIS BOOK TO 

MY DEAR HUSBAND 

WILLIAM AYTON GOSTLING 



J'aime cet apre sol, pierreux et calcine, 
Qui se pare a la fois de neige et de verdure, 
Ce sol d'Auvergne, fait de lave noire et dure, 
Ou l'homme semble plus qu'ailleurs enracine. 

A mes yeux, sa rudesse elle-meme a des charmes : 
Dans les ravins creuses par ses torrents fongueux, 
J'aime jusqu'aux rochers ruisselants et rugueux, 
Qui semblent y pencher des visages en larmes. 

J'aime ses chataigniers ronges de vetuste, 
Mais qui, drapant dans les haillons de leur ecorce, 
Comme en un vieux manteau royal, leur vaste torse, 
Gardent tant de noblesse et tant de majeste. 

J'aime a voir onduler, sous son ciel un peu pale, 
Ses landes sans fin, ou bruyere et serpolet, 
Entremelant leurs fleurs d'un si doux violet, 
Ont des plis somptueux de robe episcopate. 

Arsene Vermenouze 



PREFACE 

f I ^HIS book is about an almost undiscovered country. 
-*- I find that many English people scarcely realize 
the difference between Auvergne and Brittany : only the 
other day a friend of mine asked me when my "new 
Breton book would be out ! " So it is surely quite 
time some one took in hand the task of opening up this 
romantic and beautiful land, le Centre, as the French 
call it, the Heart of France, whence flow most of the 
fertilizing rivers on which the prosperity of the country 
depends. 

For the French, Auvergne has a strong human interest, 
for, as we shall see, it has given birth to many famous men 
and women. And for us English these mountains and 
valleys have numberless stories to tell of our Plantagenet 
kings, and of our Black Prince and his adventurous and 
aggressive knights. It is one of the great Froissart 
districts : almost every castle is connected with the 
Hundred Years' War, and Auvergne simply bristles with 
castles. 

It has its churches too, founded in the first centuries 
of Christianity, by missionaries sent forth, it is said, by 
the Apostles themselves. These churches form some of the 
most interesting architectural studies in France. And 



viii AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

above all, Auvergne has its own special indefinable charm, 
the charm of an exquisite country, as yet unspoiled by its 
contact with modern civilization. 

We found our way to Auvergne some years ago, by 
the Valley of the Dordogne. I remember that I had 
some mad scheme of ascending the river in a boat, and 
had even entered into negotiations with an agent at 
Bordeaux. But fortunately we learned in time the im- 
practicable character of the river, and took refuge in the 
commonplace, but useful automobile. Since then all our 
journeys have been taken in that fashion, though often 
for days together, our car has been left in the garage, 
while we have wandered on foot about the mountains, 
trying to gain some knowledge of the shy difficult people 
who live there. And it is thus we have grown to know 
something of Auvergne, and to know it is to love it. 
As Jean Ajalbert says : " My country is my country, that 
is to say, the most beautiful of all countries ! There you 
have in one word my opinion of Auvergne." 

Perhaps, not being an Auvergnat, it would be un- 
patriotic of me to go so far as that. But it is true that 
Auvergne has a character all her own. The great dead 
rivers of lava, the weird outlines of headless volcanoes, 
the strange tormented landscapes on the one b and ; and 
on the other, the glorious invigorating mountain air, the 
vast rolling flower-painted plateaux, where the great 
cows feed, and the cheeses are made. And there are 
the deep intricate canons, with their almost tropical 
vegetation, and foaming turbulent streams ; the crags 
crowned with battlemented ruins; the ancient lava-built 
churches, where grinning monsters peep out from the 



PREFACE ix 

purple shadows, and Black Virgins sit enthroned above 
the altars. In Auvergne, too, you will find again the 
homely farms, with great hearths and cupboard-beds, 
which we know so well in Brittany ; the strange 
superstitions and beliefs ; the markets, the picturesque 
processions and dances, the music, the songs, the stories. 
For if you turn to the people, they are just as attractive 
as their country. Kind, hospitable, with much of the 
Celtic charm, and something of the French thrift and love 
of order, the Auvergnat is a pleasant and delightful host 
to visit. So far, he has been overshadowed by his more 
showy neighbours of Touraine and Provence. But he 
only requires to be known, to prove himself quite the 
equal of any Frenchman. 

In writing this book, I have received the greatest kind- 
ness from my friends in Auvergne. From the first, they 
have done their best to make me feel, that it was I who 
was doing them a kindness, by helping to make known 
their beautiful country to the English-speaking world, and 
showers of information began to pour down upon me 
from every direction. I have shelves full of books and 
pamphlets, stacks of letters containing legends, stories, 
little personal details, and bits of local colour. Only last 
week Monsieur le Baron de Vissac, who heard of my book 
through a friend, proffered me, alas, too late, some kindly 
assistance in the form of a loan of rare old manuscripts 
concerning the town of Clermont. But my greatest help 
has come from the Mayor of Bort in Correze, and from 
his daughter, Mademoiselle Therese Parre. Through the 
two years I have been writing the book their interest and 
enthusiasm have never flagged, and it is to them that I owe 



x AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

a great deal of what is most curious and characteristic in 
the following volume. 

I have done my best to make this book a true picture of 
Auvergne ; but no one can be more conscious than myself 
of its imperfections. Yet if my readers will but supple- 
ment what they learn by a personal visit, I can assure 
them they will be most amply repaid. 

Frances M. Gostling 



Barningham, 
Worthing, 

April 191 1 



BIBLIOGRAPHY 



Croniques de Froissart. 

Histoire de France .... 

Coutumes d'Auvergne 

Les Grands Jours d'Auvergne 

Histoire de la Revolution en Auvergne 

Caesar's Commentaries. 

P&erinages et Sanctuaires de la Sainte Vierge 

La Vie des Saints et des Saintes d'Auvergne 

Les Saints d'Auvergne 

Auvergne .... 

Histoire des Villes de France 

Recks des Temps Merovingiens . 

Croyances et Legendes de l'Antiquite 

Croyances et Legendes du Moyen Age 

Les Saints Successeurs des Dieux 

Cultes, Mythes, et Religion 

La Legende Doree. 

Notre Dame de Roc-Amadour 

Histoire de Notre Dame du Puy . 

Ancienne Haute Auvergne . 

Esquisses de Boussac 



Lavisse. 
Chabrol. 
Flechier. 
Serves. 

J. B. Chabau. 
Jacques Branche. 
S. M. Mosnier. 
Jean Ajalbert. 
Guilbert. 

Augustin Thierry 
Alfred Maury. 
Alfred Maury. 
Pierre Saintyves. 
Salomon Reinach. 

Jean de Laumiere. 
Edouard Peron. 
Dtirif 
H. de Lavillatte. 



Xll 



AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 



Sainte Radagonda. 

Sainte Theodechilda 

La Procession de Saint Amable 

Le Dieu Gaulois du Soleil 

Le Saint Suaire de Cadouin 

Brand's Popular Antiquities. 

And numerous pamphlets, and other sources. 



Briand. 

J. B. Chabau. 

Everat. 

Gaidoz. 

Mademoiselle Beauregard. 



CONTENTS 



PAGE 

Preface ........ vil 

Bibliography ....... xi 



CHAPTER I 

Southampton Water — Saint-Malo — Vitre — Laval — Solesmes — Tours 
— Marmoutier — Boussac — The Black Virgin of Orcival — Arrival 
at Clermont ....... 



CHAPTER II 

The Puy de D6me — Beaumont — Romagnat — The Plateau of Gergovia 

— The Story of Vercingetorix ..... 17 



CHAPTER III 

The Village of Gergovia — Roche-Blanche — Le Crest — Saint-Amand — 
Saint-Saturnin— Champeix and its Inn — Auvergnat Superstitions 
— Riom— Saint-Amable— The Black Virgin of Marsat and the 
Wheel of Wax— Toumoel— The Puy de Pariou ... 33 



CHAPTER IV 

Clermont — The Coming of Saint Austremoine — The Church of Notre 
Dame du Port — The Preaching of the First Crusade — The Black 
Virgin of Clermont — The Revolution at Clermont — The Sacred 
Well — Sidonius Apollinaris — The Cathedral — Blaise Pascal — 
Ferrand ........ 58 



xiv AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 



CHAPTER V 



PAGE 



Veyre — Castle of Buron — Modern Witchcraft — Issoire — Besse — The 
Church of Saint Andre — The Black Virgins of the Mont Dore 
— Lac Pavin — Vassivieres — La Montee de Notre Dame de 
Vassivieres ........ 82 



CHAPTER VI 

La Tour d'Auvergne — Saint-Pardoux — Notre Dame de Natzy — Bort 
— The Burial of Carmankan — The Castle of Madic — The Story of 
Yolande — The Virgin of Champagnac — The Gorge of the Dordogne 
— The Castle of Ventadour — The Story of Geoffrey Tete Noir . 104 



CHAPTER VII 

Condat — Riom-es-Montagne — The Castle of Apchon — La Font Sainte 

— Saint Hippolyte — Cheylade and Saint-Leger — Dienne , . 123 



CHAPTER VIII 

Murat — Notre Dame des Oliviers — The Butchers of Murat — Bredons 
— The Bridge of Bredons — Saint-Mary-le-Cros — Brioude — The 
Story of Louis Raimbaut and the Limousin — The Castle of La 
Mothe — Old Brioude — The Legend of Saint Julien — The Story of 
the Bridge — The Legend of Saint Bonnite . . .141 



CHAPTER IX 

Le Puy — A Night Visit — The Druidical Stone — The Legend of Saint 
Georges — The Cathedral — The Black Virgin of Saint Louis — Royal 
Pilgrims — Adhemar du Monteil and the Salve Regina — The Re- 
volution at Le Puy — Burning of the Black Virgin — The Chapel 
of St Michel — Church of Saint Laurent — Tomb of Bertrand du 
Guesclin — Polignac — The Castle and its Story — The Oracle of 
Apollo ........ 162 



CONTENTS xv 



CHAPTER X 

PAGE 

Saint-Flour— The Coming of Saint Florus— The History of Saint-Flour 
— Ville Dieu — The Castle of Alleuze — Pierrefort — Carlat — 
Marguerite de Navarre . . . . . .186 



CHAPTER XI 

Aurillac — Saint-Geraud — The Legend of Gerbert the Wizard — The 
Story of Guy de Veyre— The Black Virgin of Aurillac — Marie de 
Senectere — The Bourree — Vermenouze the Poet of Auvergne . 208 



CHAPTER XII 

Vic-sur-Cere — Naucelles — Cologne — Marmagnac — The Castle of Tourne- 

mine — Saint-Cernin — Salers — A Mountain Dairy Farm . . 230 



CHAPTER XIII 

Mauriac — The Church — Saint Theodechilde and her Story — The 

Market at Mauriac ....... 248 



CHAPTER XIV 

Saint-Julien-au-Bois — Saint-Privat — Argentat — Beaulieu — Roc- 
amadour — Story of Zaccheus — The Black Virgin of Rocamadour 
— Domme — Cardouin — The legend of La Sainte Suaire — Capelou 
— Saint-£milion — Angouleme — Poitiers — Saint Radegonde . 263 



Index ........ 287 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 



IN COLOUR 

By Lett* 
The Approach to the Cathedral of Le Puv — Frontispiece 

FACING PAGE 

The Last Inhabitant of the Rock Houses of La 



Roche-Blanche .... 

The Village of La Roche-Blanche from Le Crest 
A Card Party in Cantal . 
La Place de la Boucherie, Murat 
An Old Woman of Auvergne 
The Bourree .... 
The Market Place, Mauriac 



36 
42 
92 

i43 
196 

222 
256 



IN MONOTONE 

From Photographs by IV. A. and F. M. Gostling 

A Street in Vitre . . 

The Castle of Boussac from the River 

A Vine Dresser of Beaumont 



FACING PAGE 

2 
IO 

24 



XVI11 



AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 



The Road to Romagnat 

The Castle of Champeix . 

The Entrance to N. D. du Port 

A Village Fountain . 

The Fountain of Vassivieres 

La Montee de N. D. de Vassivieres 

The Town of Bort from the Bridge 

The Castle of Ventadour . 

The Valley of the Rhue near Condat 

The Castle of Apchon 

The Road to Bredons 

Chateau de la Mothe 

The Bridge at Old Brioude 

The Cloister of N. D. du Puy 

The Cloister Garden of N. D. du Puy . 

An Ancient Statue of N. D. du Puy 

The Doorway of the Chapel of St Michel . 

The Custodian of ChAteau Polignac . 

The Suburb and Town of Saint-Flour . 

The Postern Entrance to the Castle of Carlat 

The River Jordanne at Aurillac 

A Village Ox-Cart ..... 

The Square and Fountain of Salers . 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS xix 

FACING PAGE 

On the Banks of the Dordogne .... 266 
The Grave of Zaccheus and the Entrance to the 

Miraculous Chapel of N. D. de Rocamadour . 272 

Shipping Wine on the Dordogne . . . 276 

Monpazier ....... 278 

The Chapel of the Trinity, and Entrance to the 

Rock Church of Saint-Emilon . . . 279 

The Church of Saint Radegonde, Poitiers . . 282 



Map of Auvergne ..... Front Cover 



AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 



CHAPTER I 

Southampton Water — Saint-Malo — Vitre — Laval — Solesmes 
Tours — Marmoutier — Boussac — The Black Virgin of Orcival — Arrival 
at Clermont 

IT is evening. There is no English word to express 
the colour of Southampton Water on a fine June 
evening ; I find " nacre " suggested in my notes — nacre, 
like the lining of a sea-shell ; and sharp and distinct against 
the gleaming background, the forms of great white liners, 
the Dunnottar Castle and others, in which so many of our 
soldiers took passage for the other world in 1900. 

And so out into the Solent, to find the Isle of Wight, float- 
ing like a New Jerusalem upon a "sea of glass mingled 
with fire." Across the waves a path of liquid gold leading 
to a lake of glory in the far horizon, where hangs the setting 
sun, "redder than any rose." Lower he sinks, drawing 
over his face the mists which shroud the west, and iridescent 
colours gleam over the milky waves, blue fading into green, 
rose dying in crimson and purple. Now there is but a 
gash in the sky, a sharp curved streak, a point . . . ! " Au 
revoir ! " It is over. The white cliffs rise higher and 
higher ; in one stupendous bluff England draws back, 
stretching delicate fingers out over the darkening waves 



2 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

in a mute gesture of farewell, and we are alone in the 
midst of the mysterious opal waters, beneath the brood- 
ing opal sky ! 

A grey morning ! 

As we threaded our way in among the rocky islets and 
drew up at the quay, the old brown walls of Saint-Malo 
frowned down upon us as they have always done on the 
English. But we found times changed since the days of 
Edward III., and were greeted, not with catapults and 
boiling water, but by the smiling agent of the Company, 
whose obliging function it is to assist passengers travel- 
ling " en automobile." 

Now, I do not propose to take you in detail, reader, all 
the long road to Auvergne. My book would run into 
several volumes if I did. But there are glimpses caught 
in passing which I cannot resist recording. 

There is the vision of Brittany as we hurried through 
on our way to the South. The dear grey land formed 
a fitting prologue to our holiday, a sort of " grace before 
meat," which no othenprovince of France could have afforded. 
We were bound on a visit to an ancient Celtic land, 
overlooked by tourists, forgotten even by the historian and 
legend-hunter, and the sombre chastened beauty of Brit- 
tany alone could tune our thoughts to the simple homely 
scenes in which we were shortly to find ourselves. 

Vitr6 rises before me, with its ancient castle, the lords 
of which claimed descent from Hoel the First, King of 
Northern Brittany, and nephew of our King Arthur. A 
beautiful old town is Vitre, filled with reminiscences of a 
certain Christine de Rieux, who, had she lived in our days, 




A STREET IN VITRE 



LAVAL 3 

would certainly have been a militant leader of the Suffra- 
gette movement. She was, however, only a down-trodden 
heroine of the eighteenth century, and had to content 
herself with quite another kind of fighting, and merely 
held Vitre successfully against the attacks of the French 
General Mercoeur and his 30,000 soldiers ! 

Beyond Vitre we began to exchange the grey poverty 
of Brittany for the rich cornfields and fragrant meadows 
of Mayenne, and the next picture is of our first tea-party. 
There, surrounded by the sunny splendour, we sat by the 
roadside, sipping our good English tea, and munching the 
cakes bought that morning in Rennes. And magpies 
flitted about in pairs, flaunting their new black-and-white 
costumes, while overhead in the elm trees, rooks talked 
busily, and a blackbird kept making some sarcastic 
remark, which I feel sure had reference to the time the 
kettle took to boil. 

And Laval ! What scenes does not the name evoke ! 
Even as we crossed the old sixteenth-century bridge, we 
saw, standing up on the right, the castle, said to have been 
founded in the eighth century by one of Charlemagne's 
generals, to protect this Vallis-Guidonis from the inroads 
of the Bretons. As we caught sight of the old building, 
we paused for a moment to think of Beatrix de Gaure, 
Countess of Faukemberg, the good Flemish wife of Guy 
the Ninth, who brought weavers from Bruges, and had the 
people of Laval instructed in the art of making linen, an 
art to which, even to-day, they owe much of their pros- 
perity. And there was that other Guy, fourteenth of the 
name, who started off from Laval to join the Maid of 
Orleans in her victorious career. Last of all there rises 
before us the pathetic figure of Antoine Philippe de la 



4 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

Tremouille, Prince de Talmont, beheaded during the 
Revolution, before the gate of the old castle, from which 
his family had for so long ruled this province of France. 
For these lords of Laval were very haughty persons, styling 
themselves " cousins of the King." Their great war-cry, 
" Py-Laval ! " often startled the English during the Hundred 
Years' War. Indeed, the whole town is full of legends, 
which followed me even to the great bedroom of the Hotel 
de l'Ouest, together with the perfume of hay, with which 
the evening was sweet. 

I think it was near Sable that we came across a striking 
result of the recent troubles of the Church in France. On 
a bank, high above the river, stands the monastery of 
Solesmes. The building was in course of being thoroughly 
restored and enlarged, when the difficulties arose between 
the French Government and the Pope, the monks being 
driven out and obliged to fly. It was a curious and 
melancholy sight to see the magnificent building all but 
finished, yet deserted and empty. With difficulty we 
gained access, and found our walk through the monastery 
somewhat enlightening as to the requirements of present- 
day monastic life — the heating arrangements, the bath- 
rooms, the large well-ventilated cells ; yet leading from 
the Superior's bedchamber, we noticed a quite mediaeval 
secret staircase, whence the whole monastery might be 
visited without the knowledge of the monks. 

"Jesus Christ didn't spy upon His apostles like that, 
but to be sure one of them betrayed Him ! " observed the 
porter who took us round. He was a quaint old fellow, 
much given to drawing comparisons between the life of 
the late abbot and that of our Saviour, whom he invari- 



SOLESMES 5 

ably styled "the Head of the Benedictines." "He didn't 
have hot-water pipes laid under His bed ! " said he, point- 
ing scornfully to the comfortable contrivance. " Indeed 
I've heard tell that He didn't know sometimes where to lay 
His head ! Ah well, times change, eh Madame ? Eighty 
of His followers had plenty of room to lay theirs, and their 
bodies too, in this abbey." 

But as I went through the great kitchens, I could easily 
picture the good Abbe Gueranger and his friend Dom 
Fontenine, cooking their first frugal meal in the monastery 
in 1832. Certainly there was no superfluous luxury at 
Solesmes in those days. " I am writing to you," says 
Dom Gueranger in a letter to his brother Edward, " seated 
at the chimney corner of our dear abbey. Dom Gilbert is 
beside me attending to the roasting of a fowl, and making 
some cabbage soup. Dom Morin, in his white apron, is 
laying the table, while Dom Fontenine is washing plates 
and dishes, and attending to the salt, butter, and a thousand 
other excellent things." This Dom Gueranger must have 
been a wonderful man. The Benedictines had, by the end 
of the eighteenth century, all but died out of France, and 
the humble abbe by his zeal and devotion, not only revived 
the order, but made Solesmes one of the most noted of 
monasteries. 1 

In the chapel we found wonderful groups of statuary, 
dating from the fifteenth century. But the remembrance 
which comes most readily before me as I recall Solesmes, 
is that of the porter's little garden, a tangle of humble 

1 A few years ago, when the monks of Solesmes were ejected from their 
country, they crossed over and settled in the Isle of Wight, at a new abbey of 
Solesmes, where they now live, under the Benedictine rule. Like most of 
their order, they are famed for their fine Gregorian singing. 



6 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

monthly roses doing their best to hide the half-hewn 

masses of stone and richly carved capitals, which lay 

waiting for the hands which were never to come and fit 
them into place ! 

It was toward evening that the rolling country and rich 
cornfields showed that we were nearing Tours, and pre- 
sently lying below, in the broad valley of the Loire, we 
saw the ancient city of Saint Martin, the twin towers of its 
cathedral glowing in the setting sun. 

Everyone knows Saint Martin, just as everyone knows 
Tours. The stories told of the great bishop are legion, 
some befitting a heathen wizard better than a Christian 
saint. Besides being that Martin who gave half his cloak 
to a beggar one snowy day, who cured the blind, the deaf, 
the sick, and the lame, who raised the very dead, he was, 
as his name signifies, a "marzin" or "marvel," like Merlin 
the Enchanter, with whom, indeed, he has been very often 
confounded. Possessed of strange powers over the elements, 
he could still tempests, quench fire, walk unseen ! To-day 
he lies in a deep crypt below the high altar of the new 
basilica, which has been raised on the site of the old abbey 
church of former days. 1 

But Tours is not only associated with Saint Martin. 
There is also the great historian Gregory, to whom we 
owe most of the knowledge we have of Merovingian times. 
He was a native of Auvergne, and as we shall meet him 

1 During the Middle Ages, the abbey of Tours was one of the richest shrines 
in Europe, and kings and emperors vied with each other in their devotion to 
Saint Martin. We find the Merovingian Chilperic, King of Soissons, sending 
to ask advice from the dead saint, as though he had been the Oracle of Delphi, 
and actually enclosing three blank pages for the expected reply. Such was 
the faith of those days ! 



MARMOUTIER 7 

again at Clermont, it is but courteous to pause for a moment, 
and pay our respects to him in the cathedral of which he 
was once bishop, 

But others have lingered at Tours, and Auvergne is 
waiting, waiting with its mountains and unexplored sanctu- 
aries. Yet let us run out to Marmoutier, the monastery 
which grew up around the cave to which Bishop Martin 
used to retire for solitude. Few of us would object to 
spend some time, now and again, in the restful quiet of that 
honeycombed cliff overlooking the Loire. Seated on one 
of the terraces which connect the Chapel of the Seven 
Sleepers with the various hermits' caves, soothed by the 
humming of bees and the perfume of roses and wild pinks, 
one might very well find relaxation there, after the stress 
and strain of city life. In one of the caves there are traces 
of an old sixth-century saint, one Leobard, who also came 
from Auvergne. A very extraordinary person must this 
Leobard have been, a sort of human mole, with a quite 
prehistoric taste for burrowing in the rock. Had he lived 
in modern times, he would probably have expended his 
surplus energy in boring a new tunnel through the Alps ; 
as it was, he spent his days enlarging and fitting up his cell 
in a fashion of his own, with a deep well at the far end, 
intended as a burial-place. Here, in fact, he did lie, till the 
mediaeval craze came for collecting indiscriminate relics, 
when his bones were taken up, and translated to the 
neighbouring Cathedral of Tours, where later they were 
found and burned by the Huguenots. 1 

Close to Marmoutier is found the Chapel of Saint 
Radegonde, most charming and picturesque of heroines. 
It was the first example I had seen of a rock church, 
1 For Saint Leobard see chap. xii. 



8 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

hollowed out as it is in the low cliff which runs along this 
bank of the Loire. In the dark cave opening out of the 
back of the chapel, Saint Gatien, first missionary to this 
part of Gaul, had his abode. 

A young priest was saying Mass in the chapel when we 
arrived, and as soon as he had finished, and the handful of 
peasants had departed, he took us into the inner shrine, and 
showed us, leading up through the rock, the ancient stone 
steps which, in the days of the hermit, formed the only exit 
from the cell. From this priest I learned that Gatien was 
one of the Shepherds of Bethlehem, and that he was sent out 
by Saint Peter, together with Austremoine of Clermont, 
George of le Puy, Saturnin of Toulouse, and several others, 
to Christianize Gaul. I believe he was the only one of 
them who escaped a violent death, a fact he probably owed 
to the extraordinary nature of his hiding-place. 

At Loches we will not linger. This town of the Planta- 
genets deserves more than a passing note, and I hope to 
describe it in detail some other day. For this journey we 
must leave it, and hasten on. 

There is an afternoon, which returns to my memory like 
a sunny dream, a vision of vineyards and cornfields, avenues 
of Spanish chestnuts, white-walled vine-draped cottages. 
For some time we have had the company of the Indre 
meandering through grass and willows on our left ; and 
the country is like an old Persian carpet, yellow, grey, and 
green, with a blue blue sky overhead, where a flock of 
fleecy clouds are pasturing. On the grass beside the road, 
many geese are feeding, all unmindful of their approaching 
fate ; for are we not in the land of Pate de Foie Gras ! 



BOUSSAC 9 

It was that same day, soon after tea, which we drank 
beside a little stream overhung by a chestnut tree heavy 
with scented blossom, that we found ourselves on a height 
looking out over the vast plain of Boussac. For a moment 
the view lay before us uncertain, as a half- forgotten story, 
and we drew up instinctively, letting our eyes wander for 
a time over this country which George Sand has immorta- 
lized. Then the ground seemed to sink away, there was a 
swift rush of air, the vision materialized, and we found our- 
selves among the realities of the plain. This Berry is 
almost unbroken ground so far as the tourist is concerned. 
Even the French know little of it, save from the pages of 
the author of "Jeanne." 

We found a statue of the great writer standing in the 
square of the picturesque town of La Chatre, and then, as 
the shadows were beginning to lengthen, hastened on 
toward Boussac, where she lived and wrote. 

A sky of Polar blue, with white mountainous clouds 
below, and above, long grey streaks, like the wings of vast 
primeval sea-birds ! . . . On the sleeve of my fur coat a 
lovely little green beetle, and one or two brick-red lady- 
birds, who seem determined to travel the rest of the way 
with us ! As evening deepens, groups of white-capped 
women, and men in blue blouses coming home from the 
fields ! . . . Now a storm is gathering, the sky becomes 
wild and livid, the distance so unnaturally clear that, far 
away, we fancy we can see the purple mountains of 
Auvergne. Then suddenly we were recalled to ourselves 
by a steep descent, newly covered by the cruellest of flints, 
over which our poor car hobbled painfully on her rubber 
soles. However, we humoured and coaxed her, and 
presently she forgot her troubles, for, at the bottom of the 



io AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

hill, we found Boussac, quaint, old, and charming. Boussac 
is one of the places to which I always hope to return, if only 
to stay at the dear inn, with its wandering passages, and 
great panelled dining-room, where, after making our usual 
restricted toilet, we partook of an astounding supper of 
many courses, waited on by one of those Mongolian sur- 
vivals who haunt the province of Berry. 

It is the castle of Boussac which is her pride and glory. 
It stands on a rock, high above the river gorge, one side 
looking down into the steep ravine, the other opening on 
to a great courtyard, full of whispering beech trees. I 
heard much of it that same evening, from the barber, a 
most loquacious person, who, while he shaved my husband, 
told us stories of the great family of Brosse who once in- 
habited the fortress, and so excited me that all night long 
I lay in my red-curtained bed, dreaming that Jean de 
Brosse, Marshal of Boussac, was clanking about the room 
in his armour, while the Maid of Orleans was trying to 
shave him with the sword given her by the Governor of 
Vaucouleurs ! 

Next morning we found our way to the castle, now the 
abode of the Sous-Prefet. Above the entrance door is 
carved the casque of Jean de Brosse, and while we were 
waiting for permission to enter, I sat by an old well, and 
so overheard the beech trees telling stories of Jean's boy- 
hood : how he played here in the castle-yard with his sisters 
Antoinette, Blanche, and Catherine, and of the coming of 
his young wife Jeanne de Naillac, and how she wept when 
he left her and her baby, to go away to the court at Chinon. 

Then the door was opened, and we went into the dark 
entrance and down to the great banqueting-hall, with its 
huge hearth, and up the stone stairs to the little salon where 




THE CASTLE OF BOUSSAC FROM THE RIVER 



AUBUSSON ii 

George Sand wrote her novels. I can imagine no surround- 
ings more inspiring ! Given a pencil and some notebooks, 
the most "finished and finite clod" could there turn out 
something worth reading ! No visitors, save the heroes 
and heroines of the past ; no afternoon calls, save to the 
cure to learn some details as to a local saint ; no neigh- 
bours, save the old, white-capped story-teller, who lives in 
the little cottage by the bridge, at foot of the castle rock. 
All day long the sun would shine in at the window, the 
sweet warm scent of hay would fill the room, while up 
from below would come the murmur of the stream, as it 
brushed past the base of the hill. And, in the evening, 
strange moths and fairy-winged things would fly in to 
dance round the lamp : which, like a beacon, was shining 
over the broad plain. Yes, I think one could write at 
Boussac ! 

Evening ! I cannot recall the details of the past day. 
In looking back I find myself, for a moment, in a chapel, 
where is a very ancient painted stone statue of Saint 
Loup, and an old woman is telling me that it preserves 
the neighbourhood from thunder and hail ! She shows 
me another and more modern image of the saint, which 
is carried in procession, but which has none of the occult 
powers of the weird-looking old demon, before which hang 
the votive offerings ! 

Again, we are running down a deep glacier- worn 
gorge, at the bottom of which we come upon a 
strange-looking town, that I learn is Aubusson, the 
birthplace of those wonderful tapestries which once hung 
in the banqueting-hall of Boussac, and were known as 
" Les Tapisseries de la Dame a la Licorne." 1 It was at 

1 These tapestries are now in the Cluny Museum, Paris. 



12 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

Aubusson we lunched in company with many dogs and 
sporting farmers, and the house was full of the scent of 
white lilies, which the landlady was steeping in spirit to 
use as an embrocation. 

All that afternoon I have a remembrance of climbing, 
climbing, climbing; of leagues upon leagues of pearly 
distance, shot with glancing gleaming colours, like the 
jewelled foundations of the Holy City. The breeze was 
full of the scent of heather, and all dry sweet summer 
perfumes, yet fresh and invigorating, as befits the breath 
of the Plateau des Mille Vaches, where the grassy rounded 
summits make one think of the backs of gigantic cows, 
pasturing over the mountains. 

At last we entered a lonely valley, where was a great 
Romanesque church, and stalls for the sale of rosaries 
and other objects of devotion, marking it as a resort of 
pilgrims. And indeed I had heard of the Black Virgin 
of Orcival, one of those ancient and mysterious Madonnas 
we find presiding over so many of the shrines of Auvergne. 
As I entered the heavy building, an old woman rose from 
behind the door and proffered me a candle. " It will do 
Madame no harm, even though she is a foreigner ! " said 
she, seeing me hesitate for a moment. "All the world 
may come to offer homage to Our Lady of Orcival." 
Then, while the candle was being lighted and placed on 
the stand, she told me the legend of the coming of 
Christianity to Orcival. 

" It is now many years ago," she said, " since the 
Blessed Virgin was in the habit of travelling about 
Auvergne, showering her blessings around her. One day, 
at sunset, she came to the village of Vitrac. Madame 
knows it?" 



ORCIVAL 13 

I shook my head. 

" So much the better : they are bad people, the Vitracois. 
Behold how they treated Our Lady. She was weary of 
wandering. ' Build me a little chapel,' said she, ' that I 
may rest among you, and wander no more.' But would 
you believe it, Madame, these hard-hearted and avaricious 
people chased her pitilessly away ! Chased the Queen of 
Heaven from their village ! Ah, well ! a quelque chose 
malheur est bon ! Perhaps, save for their wickedness, she 
might never have come to us ! In spite of her fatigue, La 
Sainte Vierge saw herself obliged to continue her route 
At last she stopped at Orcival. What happiness for our 
town ! The inhabitants immediately recognized in her the 
Mother of God, and built a chapel, which quickly grew 
into this splendid basilica. Their act of faith brought 
about the salvation of their souls, and made this country 
a country of miracles." 

" I wonder what the people of Vitrac thought about it ? " 
said I. 

" Ah," said the woman, chuckling, " they were not slow 
in coming to a knowledge of their gross and unpardonable 
sin, and I must say for them that they did their best to 
repair their fault. Just where the Blessed Virgin rested, 
they raised a calvary, and there it still stands, at the 
entrance to their village. People go and pray before it, 
that vengeance may be kept far from their dwellings, and 
every year the Vitracois come in great numbers to ask 
forgiveness of Our Lady of Orcival. Madame knows that 
it was the blessed Saint Luke himself who carved the 
statue ? " she concluded. 

I replied that I had heard the legend. 

" It is no legend," said the old dame indignantly, " the 



14 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

statue was carved from life. That, no doubt, is the reason 
it is so miraculous." 

" What is it good for ? " I inquired. 

" Mais pour tout, naturally, particularly for delivering 
those in captivity." And I called to mind a story I had 
read of a man of Plauzet, who was being taken as a prisoner 
to Paris, where he was to be executed for some political 
offence, of which he was innocent. Arrived at Moulins, 
his guards went to sleep after tying him to the bedpost. 
Then it was that the prisoner called to mind his local 
deity, and evoked her under the name of Notre Dame 
d'Orcival. Immediately his bonds were loosed, the locked 
door opened, and he escaped. 

" Before the statue of Our Lady was brought here," con- 
tinued the woman, " they say that the people were heathens, 
and worshipped a god called Orcus," and she crossed herself 
and glanced up at the dark impassive face of the statue, as 
though apologizing for mentioning the god of the infernal 
regions in her presence. 

" In those days, there were many bears in Orcival, and it 
is from them that the valley takes its name. But since the 
coming of the Blessed Virgin, they have all disappeared, so 
that, as the saying goes, it is no longer an ' Orcival ' (valley 
of bears) but a retreat for angels." 

Wherever the old dame got the idea, it is an ingenious 
derivation, though it is far more likely that the valley took 
its name from that very " Orcus," the Gaulish god of death, 
to whom the shrine was once dedicated. 

The statue itself is extremely ancient, carved from the 
heart of some very hard and durable tree. The sculptor, 
however, was more probably an ancient Druid priest than 
the apostle Saint Luke ! 



THE LIMAGNE 15 

And now it is evening ! For some time we have been 
winding round the base of a great mountain, which, from 
its size, can be no other than the Puy de Dome. Kingly 
and majestic it stands, " still wearing, like a crown on its 
round Celtic head, the ruins of the temple, placed there by 
the greatest of nations." 

As we hurry past, it towers above us, this ghostly 
monarch of Auvergne, till presently, on the right, a valley 
opens, or rather the ground on that side sinks away to a 
much lower level, leaving us high up on the side of the 
mountain looking down to where, a thousand feet below, 
lies Clermont, purple and fairy-like. 

And beyond Clermont stretches the wide Limagne. 
How can I picture the Limagne ? Fifteen hundred years 
ago Sidonius Apollinaris wrote of it : "I cannot describe 
to you the peculiar charm of this country. Over a pastoral 
ocean, billows of precious harvest are tossing. The more 
a man travels across it, the more certain is he of escaping 
shipwreck, so gentle is it to voyagers, so fruitful to labourers, 
so generous to huntsmen. The mountains form a girdle of 
pasturage, flanked by a girdle of vines. There are farms 
in the country, castles on the rocks, forests in the dark 
corners, rich cornfields in the plains, streams run along the 
valleys, and torrents rush down the mountain gorges. In 
fact, strangers visiting such a country lose the memory ot 
their native land ! . . ." 

And since then the Limagne has but developed in 
beauty. 

Guy de Maupassant says of it : " Before her, like a 
mighty ocean, lay a boundless plain. Veiled in delicate 
blue mist, it stretched away and away toward the vague 
far distant mountains. And beneath the fine translucent 



1 6 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

haze, which floated over this vast extent of country, could 
be seen towns, villages, forests, great yellow squares of 
ripe corn, great green squares of meadowland, factories 
with tall red chimneys, church steeples black and pointed, 
built from the lava of ancient volcanoes." 

For us, the shadows were darkening over the Limagne. 
Those " vague far-distant mountains " had drawn back 
behind the curtains of the night, and, as we flew down 
the long smooth road, past Chateau Michelin, the lights 
of Clermont began to twinkle through the purple 
darkness, till suddenly we found ourselves in all the 
commotion, traffic, and electric radiance of the Place 
de Jaude. 



CHAPTER II 

The Puy de Dome — Beaumont — Romagnat — The Plateau of Ger- 
govia — The Story of Vercingetorix 

SO this is Auvergne ! I have thrown back the shutters 
of my bedroom, and, stepping on to the little balcony, 
find myself face to face with the Puy de Dome ! It is 
true that between us lies all the life of Clermont, houses 
shops, the Place de Jaude shaded by trees, threaded in 
every direction by electric trams, and thronged by a busy 
hurrying crowd of men and women. But my eyes see 
only two objects, the Man and the Mountain, they represent 
Auvergne, the Auvergne of my dreams. 

For the Man, there he is close at hand, set high on a 
pedestal in the midst of the Place, a noble bronze figure in 
the casque of the ancient Arverni, riding his plunging 
charger barebacked, and trampling underfoot a fallen foe. 
No need of the inscription to tell the name of the hero ! 
The fame of Vercingetorix is as eternal as the giant 
Mountain toward which he is waving his short unwieldy 
sword. 

I think it was Michelet who described Clermont as a 
" town where every vista seems shut in by the Puy de 
Dome." It is equally true to say that every street leads back 
to the statue of Vercingetorix ; for all the life of Clermont 
centres in the Place de Jaude, and in the midst of the 
Place stands the hero ! No wonder that one grows to 
regard him as emblematic of the race, just as one thinks 
of the Puy de Dome as typical of the district. 



1 8 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

How many mornings has not the Mountain tempted us 
forth for a ramble upon its golden flanks and among its 
purple valleys, and how many evenings has not the great 
patriot welcomed us home to the substantial comforts of 
the Hotel de l'Univers ! 

They have many things in common. Both have been 
conquered. Round the sides of the Mountain the ever- 
advancing tide of civilization has wound its way upward 
in the form of a snorting, puffing, smoke-vomiting railway 
train. And the Man, who for a time kept at bay great 
Cassar himself, died miserably, strangled in a Roman 
dungeon. But in the cause of progress such reverses are 
inevitable, and indeed who shall resent the new regime? 
Not I, as I sit in the little train, and think of the weary 
straining horses of former days, toiling up the mountain, 
or the still more weary pilgrims, who climbed upward to 
the great Gaulish temple of the god Lug, which formerly 
crowned the summit. And not the great patriot himself, 
be sure, if, in that Druid Paradise to which he has gone, 
he realizes all that Roman law, education, and cleanliness 
have done for his beloved country. 

Truly — 

" The old order changeth, yielding place to new, 
And God fulfils Himself in many ways, 
Lest one good custom should corrupt the world ! " 

The shrine of the god Lug, rebuilt, rebeautified, renamed, 
becomes the Roman temple of Mercury, and later, when 
Christianity invades the land, the principal meeting- 
place of sorcerers, where " every witch in France, pos- 
sessed of a broomstick, hastened on the night of Saint 
Jean " to worship the old pagan god, under his new name 
of Satan. Later, the spot is said to have been cleansed, 
and sanctified by a chapel to Saint Barnabas, and in these 



THE PUY DE DOME 19 

materialistic days is occupied by a scientific observatory, a 
railway shed, and a refreshment room ! 

It was a glorious day, hot as one likes to have it in 
Auvergne. As I sat sipping the coffee, which Alphonse 
the waiter had obligingly brought together with the boots 
and hot water, I kept gazing and gazing at the vast 
rounded form, gleaming through its transparent garment 
of mist, like some high priest shrouding himself in the 
diaphanous folds of his surplice. At last I could resist no 
longer. 

" Never mind about unpacking," said I, " let us go ! I 
want to get to the top of something ! After all the 
Mountain was there before anything else. Let us go up 
the Mountain ! " 

We found the little train already crowded, for the pil- 
grimage seems more popular than ever, since the gods of 
health and pleasure set up their shrines on the Mountain. 

And indeed, from that point of view, most of the 
passengers were regular pilgrims. They had field-glasses 
instead of rosaries, guide-books by way of breviaries, 
while many carried cameras in which to bear away 
impressions, even as the ancient pilgrims no doubt took 
flasks to contain the healing waters served out to them at 
the temple. For the most part, they were a happy merry 
set, and laughed and made jokes at the heat, as they 
mopped their red faces and took off their damp collars. 
One lady insisted on my eating a peppermint lozenge, 
saying it would cool me ! I had not the strength of mind 
to refuse so kindly meant an offer, but it had by no means 
the desired effect, and it made me uncomfortable for a long 
time! 

At last, when every seat was full, and all the standing 
space, inside and out, packed like a political meeting, we 



2o AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

set off. The engine apparently felt the heat as much as 
we did, and puffed in a quite apoplectic manner. There 
is no station to leave, you merely find the little train 
labelled " Au sommet," waiting casually in the street, and 
when the ticket clerk is satisfied that he cannot ram in 
another baby, you start. 

A little past Chamalieres, with its ancient and 
picturesque church (where, by the by, was once treasured 
one of the nails from our Saviour's cross, very useful in 
cases of blindness), the road begins rising, and soon gains 
such an elevation that Clermont appears lying far below, 
clustering round the base of its purple cathedral. Behind 
the city stretches a plain, growing flatter and broader as 
we rise higher. Now we stop ! " La Baraque," shouts the 
guard ; but no one descends. All are for " Le Sommet." 

La Baraque lies on the edge of the plateau, the great 
tableland from which spring the Puys. And now, after 
threading our way for some time among cornfields and 
meadows, we find ourselves approaching the final cone, 
and see the railway winding up before us like some 
gigantic snake. 

With great difficulty and much stoking, the engine 
panted its way upward, every moment the view growing 
more superb, more vast. The air had become cooler, 
jackets were put on, collars turned up, and all the time 
there was a running fire of ecstatic exclamations. 
" Ravissant ! Regardez done, Lucile, corame e'est 
grandiose ! " The lady of the peppermints became a little 
nervous as the gradient grew steeper. " Mon Dieu ! " I 
heard her exclaim more than once. But for the most part 
the pilgrims appeared to have good nerves, and the 
general opinion seemed to be that it was " epatant ! " 

And now the sides of the Mountain grow so steep that 



THE VOLCANOES 21 

the surface has to be held in places by stakes, which give 
one an uncomfortable sense of insecurity, as one glances 
down at the landscape lying two thousand feet below ! 

At the top we found a cold wind blowing, and were 
glad to shelter in one of the alcoves which still exist on 
the south side of the great ruined temple. Thence we 
could look down over the plateau, to the rolling plain 
beyond. What a view ! From that height, the enormous 
landscape looks almost flat, stretching away on every side 
to the misty horizon, where stand purple mountains, 
vague, mysterious. 

Starting almost from our feet runs a river of lava, wild 
and rough, piled wave upon wave in sinister confusion, 
winding its way round ancient volcanoes, which look as 
though they had boiled up and burst ; and each showing 
plainly, in spite of the overgrowth of grass and bushes, the 
rounded dip of its cratered summit. The whole makes 
one think of an enormous seething cauldron, suddenly 
petrified at the moment it was boiling its hardest ; or of 
one of those lunar landscapes, with which Jules Verne has 
made us familiar. It is the most extraordinary sight in 
the world ! Nothing can be more weird, nothing more 
suggestive of the turbulent convulsive youth through 
which our planet has passed. 

What a spectacle it must have been when all this 
district was ablaze ! When streams of molten lava were 
flowing slowly over the plain, licking up forests, rivers, 
lakes ; when the sky was darkened with smoke, and the 
only light came from the great volcanoes which stood like 
torches, belching out fire and ashes. Some people tell us 
that man was already in existence during the volcanic 
period in Auvergne. I wonder what his palaeolithic brain 
thought of it all ! 



22 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

We sat enjoying the weirdly beautiful scene for some 
time, picking out the little lava-built villages which crest 
the hills, and letting our eyes wander over the distant 
plain of the Limagne. Truly this is the centre of France, 
the seigneurial motte, on which the Gaulish god sat 
surveying and ruling his domain. 

" It makes me think of Greece more than any other 
country," said I, " Greece and Wales and Scotland, and a 
little of Ireland and Brittany and Cornwall, but I don't 
know why ! " 

" I don't know why either," replied my husband, " but 
you have picked out some of the very countries which, like 
Auvergne, are the most ancient in Europe, and which, 
when the rest of the land was under water, stood up above 
the flood much as it does now above the plains of France. 
Such countries form part of the very skeleton of the 
earth." 

Presently it grew so cold that we went to the hotel. 
We found it a pathetic place, presided over by two lean 
dogs of doubtful parentage, who hungrily devoured the 
sawdust cakes which accompanied my cup of coffee. 
Around the walls were notices offering everything one was 
not likely to want — ices, baths, mineral waters, special 
terms for a stay of some time ! But the great object of 
everyone, after struggling round the summit, seemed to be 
to get something hot to drink, and to secure a nice warm 
seat for the homeward journey. The landlady, seeing that 
I was a stranger, tried her best, poor thing, to induce me 
to stay the night. 

" II faut passer la nuit au sommet, Madame, pour assister 
au lever du soleil ! " she exclaimed, clasping her hands 
eagerly ; " c'est un enchantement devant un spectacle in- 
oubliable ! " The atmosphere suggesting, however, that the 



THE DESCENT 23 

beds might be equally " inoubliable," we decided to take 
our chance of witnessing the sunrise before something 
warmer than the " spectacle," and hastened to take our 
seats in the train. 

The only comfortable place on the mountain is the shed 
where the locomotive reposes during its periodical visits ; 
it is at least sheltered from the wild spirits of the air 
which haunt the top of the mountain. Here I sat cosily 
between two fat priests, till the toy trumpet sounded, and, 
with much groaning and rattling, we began creeping down 
the steep corkscrew track. 

As we wound slowly down the mountain, we naturally 
kept changing our point of view, and could observe the 
vast landscape from every direction. Descending from a 
height is always a strange sensation. On the summit, the 
chief feeling is one of solitude ; the consciousness of self 
becomes intense and overwhelming. There, at our feet, 
lies the world, such a little thing ; a province to be glanced 
over in a moment, a city that would lie in one's hand. The 
great cathedral there, the castle on the rock, mere charms 
to be worn on the watch-chain. With a field-glass one can 
distinguish tiny dots as carriages, motors, trains. But it is 
all so small, so insignificant, that one ceases to realize that 
the people inhabiting them are of the same importance as 
we are. The great Self on the Mountain is the only 
personality of which one is aware. Then we begin to sink 
downward, bushes become trees, dark patches forests, toy 
villages cities, the little " charm " grows into the great 
Gothic cathedral of Clermont — strangest sensation of 
all, we find ourselves back in the busy noisy Place de 
Jaude, surrounded by our fellow-men and women, just one 
of the crowd ! Like Moses, we have come down from the 
mountain ! 



24 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

Clermont has one drawback — it is very noisy ! Of course 
no large town can be as quiet as the country, especially if 
it happens to be the centre of the automobile industry, 
but one does expect even townspeople to go to sleep 
sometimes ! 

Unfortunately, our room was situated over a popular 
cafe\ In other respects it was a pleasant room, large, 
well-appointed, and cheerful. But considered as a place 
to sleep in, it was a distinct failure ; indeed the noise 
from below, particularly at night, was so appalling, that 
it became a necessity during the day to get out into the 
quiet country, where the strains of the band, and the 
noise of broken glasses and broken tempers could not 
reach us. 

So, during the week's stay, we got into the habit of 
wandering off for long days among the hills, lunching 
at any little inn we could find, and talking to the 
vine-dressers, church cleaners, lace-makers, in fact to 
anyone who had time for a gossip, as most people seem 
to have in Auvergne. 

We did not take the automobile on these expeditions. 
Even the best of friends sometimes feel the necessity of a 
temporary separation. We left it at " Bastide's," and 
rambled off, much as Adam and Eve may have done when 
they set out to explore Paradise. 

It was on one of these occasions that we found our way 
to Gergovia, the great oblong flat-topped table of basalt, 
which forms such a striking object in the landscape to the 
south of Clermont. I wish I had time to take my reader 
all the road to Gergovia. 

There was Beaumont, pretty little Beaumont, lying 
among its vineyards, crowned still by the ancient and 
beautiful church which once formed part of the abbey 



SAINT VERNEY 25 

of Beaumont, as is testified by the carved funeral slabs 
of various noble abbesses. It was there we found a 
statue of the curious and little-known Saint Verney, 
patron of vine-growers, who must surely be the Christian 
representative of the god Bacchus, once worshipped in 
this neighbourhood. We were photographing the strange 
little manikin with his dog at his side, his pruning-knife 
in his hand, and, hanging to his belt, his dinner tied up 
in a handkerchief, and one of the identical wooden casks 
in which every workman of Auvergne carries his day's 
allowance of wine, when two boys came in to ring the 
Angelus. They looked surprised at finding me in the 
pulpit, but seemed quite gratified that I should be photo- 
graphing Saint Verney, who, they told me, was the patron 
saint of the district. It seems that he was the only child 
of a vine-dresser, and so good and pious that all parents 
used to hold him up as an example to their own boys. In 
those days, the neighbourhood was much disturbed by the 
presence of a large number of Jews, and so it is no surprise 
to find a Jewish workman living there, whose children were 
the pest of the place. Aggravated by having the perfections 
of young Verney constantly flung in his face, this malicious 
Israelite one day enticed the little boy to a lonely spot 
among the vine-clad hills, and there crucified him, head 
downwards. 

" And when is his festival ? " I asked. 

"On the 19th day of April," replied one of the boys. 
" He is taken in procession round the vineyards ; it makes 
the vines shoot." 

" And he has bunches of grapes, that we keep from the 
year before, hung all round him ! " said the other eagerly. 
" And my grandfather says that when he was young, they 
used to wash Saint Verney's feet with wine ! " 



26 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

" I don't believe that ! " said the first boy sceptically ; 
" no one would be so silly as to waste good wine in such 
a way ! " 

" How do you know they wasted it ? " asked the other 
slyly ; " how do you know the priest didn't drink it after- 
wards ? " 

" Well, at all events, it isn't done now ! " replied the first 
boy. 

And after Beaumont there was Romagnat, where we had 
lunch, and a fine trouble we had to get it too, for there was 
no inn, and the little wine-shop, which was our only hope, 
was all in di c order, the roof having fallen in only the week 
before. However, with a little persuasion we induced the 
woman of the house to cook us an omelette, and while she 
did so, sat down at the kitchen table, to whet our appetites 
on home-made sausage. She turned out to be an excellent 
cook, and took great pride in showing me every detail of 
her culinary efforts. Thus, when she had broken the eggs, 
she brought me the basin, and made me smell them, laugh- 
ing and nodding delightedly when I pointed to the hens 
which were pecking round the door. Likewise with the 
bacon — for it was to be an "omelette au lard," the best 
of all dishes in Auvergne — when the time came for adding 
it, she went running into the next room, and came back 
with a very ancient and somewhat fusty-looking strip of 
fat, which she exhibited with much satisfaction, before 
cutting it up and putting it into the pan. Her delight 
knew no bounds, when I said, what was perfectly true, 
that I had never enjoyed anything more. She was a 
nice-looking young woman of the Celtic type, and a 
kind girl also ; it was a pleasure to see her with her two 
great dogs, her chickens, and her many cats and kittens, 
to whom she had taught all manner of tricks, and for 




-_- : 




GERGOVIA 27 

whom a special dinner had been prepared in a large pot 
that stood on the hearthstone. 

Here, as at Beaumont, we found a most wonderful church, 
with early Roman pillars, on which are carved wolves' 
heads and other strange devices. Here too we found 
Saint Verney presiding, and before his altar a very ancient 
woman. She sat there meditating, her skin so dry and 
wrinkled, her eyes so faded and dull, that she looked as 
though she might have been the saint's grandmother, and 
I longed to ask her more about his legend, which is very 
rare and difficult to trace. She seemed, however, to have 
begun some endless litany, and, as we still had the longest 
part of our walk before us, we left her to her devotions. 

There is an exquisite little woodland path leading up 
from Romagnat to the plateau, a path by which it pleased 
me to think that Caesar may have climbed when he made 
his attack upon the fortress, and certainly a path by which 
Vercingetorix must have passed, many and many a time. 
It leads steeply upward, through an undergrowth of bracken 
and nut bushes, and is^ sheltered from the sun by a row of 
cherry trees, which just then were crimson with fruit. 

And now we are on the summit, at the extreme end of 
the long table-like plateau. Around are other strange 
fiat-topped mountains, rising from the turquoise mist of 
heat which overhangs the broad plain. What a site to 
choose for the ancient capital of Auvergne ! To the north 
stands the Puy de Dome with its attendant satellites ; to 
the south, very far off, can be seen the Puy de Sancy, and 
all the rest of the view is like a great picture I once saw 
in the Louvre, called "Space," a vast billowy ocean of 
delicate greens and greys and lavenders, stained here and 
there by the shadows of the soft white clouds which hang 
in the sapphire sky. 



28 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

As I wander among the grass-grown ruins of what, two 
thousand years ago, was Gergovia, I can still trace the 
lines of the streets, the plans of the houses, or think I can, 
which is much the same thing. Here is a large open 
space, possibly the square in which Celtill, the father of 
Vercingetorix, was burned alive by his jealous brother 
chieftains, because, by his superior bravery and talent, he 
had raised himself to be their leader. I wonder whether 
his young son was forced to look on at the terrible sight ; 
it would be quite in character with the barbarism of the 
time, when it was still the fashion to cut off the heads of 
all vanquished foes, string them together, and hang them 
in festoons to the horses' necks and flanks. 

These mounds may cover the foundations of the great 
rude palace where the feasts were held, and where the 
chiefs sat at a huge round table like that of King Arthur, 
so jealous were the Celts, so anxious all to be first. 
Surrounding the chiefs stood the heralds and men-at-arms, 
forming two concentric circles, the first holding lances, the 
second armed with bucklers. 

The food was served to the chiefs on copper, bronze, or 
silver dishes, the greatest care being taken to reserve the 
best pieces for the most distinguished guests. In the case 
of a pig, the tail was reckoned the choicest morsel, and it 
was not at all uncommon for deadly feuds to arise over a 
slight mistake in the serving of the meat, so that these 
feasts quite commonly ended in bloodshed ! 

But the ruins of Gergovia are ruins, absolute and com- 
plete. It is better to turn one's eyes again to the view, for 
there little has changed. To the east, behind that hill, 
where you see the village nestling, flows the river Allier, 
over which Csesar built his hurried bridge. We are told 
that the great Roman general had done his best to gain 



VERCINGETORIX 29 

young Vercingetorix as an ally, even going the length of 
offering to make him king over the Arverni, if he would 
swear allegiance to Rome. But Caesar knew little of the 
patriotic spirit with which he was dealing. Vercingetorix 
refused the offer with horror, and called all the chiefs 
together here at Gergovia, where he had established him- 
self. His plan of campaign was simple — namely, by burn- 
ing the crops to starve the Romans out of the country. 
The peasants began well, for in one day more than twenty 
towns, with all their corn land, were destroyed. But when 
they came to Bourges they hesitated, for its inhabitants 
pleaded that it was the finest city of Gaul, the pride and 
glory of the land (as it has ever remained), and so they 
spared it. But it cost them dear ! Having managed to 
take it by assault, Caesar made it his headquarters, and 
from it spread terror through the country. 

Come and sit by me among the ruined walls of Gergovia. 
How still it is up here on the height ! Only the rye 
whispers the story, the rye and the cornflowers and the 
wild pinks and larkspur. I suppose the ancestors of these 
flowers saw the coming of the Romans, and heard their 
vain attacks on the fortifications which had been built 
round the steep sides of the plateau. Here on this very 
spot, Vercingetorix may have stood watching. With very 
little imagination, we can see his noble young face and 
form, armed as he is represented in the Place de Jaude, 
and wearing a winged casque, such as you see at the top 
of the monument yonder. Again and again the Romans 
attack the fortress, and every time are beaten back. At 
last Caesar, watching and directing operations from that 
hill, called even to-day the " Hill of Caesar," gives command 
that some of his men shall pretend to assault a certain 
height commanding Gergovia — perhaps Roche Blanche, to 



30 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

which we will go presently. The ruse succeeded. The 
Arverni pursued them, leaving their city almost undefended. 
Already the Romans were climbing the inner wall of 
Gergovia, when the cries of women and children reached 
the ears of Vercingetorix. Looking back, he saw the 
danger, and returned just in time. The vengeance he 
took must have been terrible ! The Romans, taken in the 
flank, were cast down from the town to the camp, from the 
camp over the edge of the mountain. Even according to 
Caesar's account, forty-six centurions were left dead, and the 
ruin would have been complete, had not the Roman general 
himself advanced from his hill with his tenth legion, and 
covered the retreat of the remnants of his army. 

Standing beside the " Casque of Vercingetorix," we can 
watch the way toward the Allier, taken by Caesar, the 
enemy in hot pursuit. Once they caught him up, gave 
him a second beating, and deprived him of his sword, which 
he found later, hanging as a trophy in one of the Gaulish 
temples. 

But there is a darker side to the story of Vercingetorix. 
Here, at Gergovia, we think of him only as the great, 
successful, popular leader. As the monument which has 
been raised to his honour says — 

" In his Locis Dux Arvernorum Vercingetorix C^sarem 
invadentem profligavit." 

Yes, but that is not the end of the story ! 

It is some months later. Caesar's turn has come. The 
Gauls are straitly shut up in the city of Alesia, and are 
starving, some even suggesting that it would be well to 
kill and eat those unfit for warfare, as had been done by 
their ancestors in the war against the Cimbri and Teutons. 
But Vercingetorix will not hear of the horrible idea. 



VERCINGETORIX 31 

" It is I whom Caesar hates ! " says he. " It has always 
been I ! If he has me, he will pardon you ! " 

So, dressing himself in his most splendid clothes, his 
close-fitting, gold-embroidered " braccae " or breeches, his 
" sagum " or plaid fastened on the shoulder over his 
gorgeous, blouse-like " caracalla," his fair hair combed and 
curling on his shoulders, and neck and arms glittering 
with jewelled collars and bracelets, he put on his 
winged helmet — "fait d'un crane de bete, ou Ton voit 
s'eployer des ailes de gerfauts," as the poet of Auvergne, 
Arsene Vermenouze has it — and taking his sword in his 
hand, mounted his war-horse, and rode out of the city gate. 

Caesar, we are told, had seated himself at the head of the 
lines in front of the camp. Riding at full gallop, the chief 
of the Arverni circled round and round the Roman, till, 
stopping suddenly, he dismounted, threw off his armour, 
and silently seated himself at Caesar's feet to await his 
doom. 

It is six years later. During all that time Verdngetorix 
has been languishing in a Roman dungeon, probably that 
black hole called the " Mamertine prison," where so many 
were done to death. His country has settled quietly down 
under the Roman yoke, which, indeed, has been arranged 
to weigh as little as possible ! Caesar, become master of 
the world, has returned to Rome, and Vercingetorix is 
dragged from his prison, loaded with chains, and made to 
follow the great man's chariot through the streets of the 
city. 

And there is a last scene about which the Roman 
historians are silent, as well they may be. Only vague 
legends tell what was the actual fate of the patriot. 
According to some, he was strangled, others say he was 
beheaded. But whatever happened to his body, his soul 



32 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

still lives in the hearts of the countrymen for whom he 
laid down his life two thousand years ago. 

" Et vous avez dresse - debout, comme un menhir, 
Au seuil de notre Histoire, ainsi qu'au seuil d'un temple, 
Ce que tous vos lointains enfants viendront benir : 
Le granit immortel d'un magnanime exemple." 

Arsene Vermenouze 



CHAPTER III 

The Village of Gergovia— Roche-Blanche — Le Crest — Saint-Amand 
— Saint-Saturnin — Champeix and its Inn — Auvergnat Superstitions — 
Riom— Saint-Amable — The Black Virgin of Marsat and the Wheel 
of Wax — Tournoel — The Puy de Pariou 

IF, instead of returning to Romagnat, you descend from 
the plateau on the farther side, you quickly find your- 
self looking down on the flat red roofs of a village, which 
still bears the name of Gergovia, and is probably built out 
of the remains of that famous six-foot wall, constructed 
of beams and stone, which so excited the admiration of 
the Romans, and formed so considerable an item in the 
fortification of the city of Vercingetorix. Like most of 
the villages in Auvergne, Gergovia has been built quite 
regardless of convenience, and is merely a collection of 
lava-walled cottages clinging to the steepest part of the 
southern slope of the mountain. 

After scrambling down the narrow path, we found our- 
selves on the top of this village, the main street of which 
is on so steep an incline, that we felt as though we had 
entered some house by a trap-door, and were finding our 
way down the staircase through the various stories. First 
came very rough places, mostly used as sheds and haylofts. 
Presently we came to a chapel, and in front of it a foun- 
tain where women were washing, just as, no doubt, their 
ancestors did in Caesar's time. On the lowest floor of all 
we found an inn, for which, by that time, we were quite 
ready ! 

3 3S 



34 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

Climbing up an outside flight of steps, we entered a 
large bare room, the blinds of which were so closely drawn 
that, after the glare without, it seemed twilight. One 
window, however, stood open, and on the little balcony 
beyond, an old man was sitting in the sunshine. I can 
see him now, turning his face with its merry eyes and 
serious mouth toward us. 

" Bonjour, Monsieur-Madame ! " he cries gaily, and then 
we see that he is a cripple, and sits there not because 
he is old, but because his legs are paralysed. 

As soon as he has us seated comfortably beside him 
on his balcony, with some of Saint Verney's good white 
wine on a table at our elbow, he plunges eagerly into 
conversation, after the manner of the Auvergnat, who 
is a friendly, cheerful, expansive edition of his cousin 
the Breton. He tells of the accident which crippled him 
— how he was run over, ten years before, by a heavy 
waggon, and has grown more and more helpless, till 
now he cannot move at all. " But I have this balcony, 
you see," he concludes cheerfully, "where I can sit in 
the sunshine and watch the children playing below, 
and cast an eye from time to time over the landscape 
yonder, to see how the vines are getting on ! Oh, it 
might be much worse, Madame!" 

" How do you spend the time in winter ? " I asked ; " are 
you fond of reading ? " 

" I read Le Petit Journal when I can get it," he re- 
plied, " and that is most days, for the neighbours are very 
kind. Some one is often coming in for a chat, just to 
tell me how the world is moving. And then there is always 
Marie ! " 

" Marie is your wife ? " 

"Yes, Madame, my wife." Then with a shout which 



INN AT GERGOVIA 35 

made me jump, " Marie ! Encore du vin pour Monsieur ! 
Ma foi ! You forget he is English ! " 

" Pardon, Monsieur ! " said a meek voice, as the little 
woman came forward out of the shadow, with the step of 
a mouse, and filled up our glasses. 

" I suppose you do not have many English here ? " asked 
my husband. 

" They come sometimes. When was it, Marie, that the 
English came ? " 

" The year before last ! " 

" So it was ! " agreed her husband ; " how the time flies ! 
I always remember them, for they sat at that table and 
drank two bottles of wine each, and then walked down 
the hill as steadily as two gendarmes. I watched them 
myself ; not a stumble ! Bon Dieu ! What a nation ! " 

" Perhaps the gentlefolk know them," suggested Marie 
timidly, with that very common peasant idea of the small- 
ness of all worlds outside their own. " Their name was 
Robinson ; they were brothers ! " 

As we sat there watching the wide stretch of country, 
we naturally began talking of Vercingetorix, and, to my 
delight, I found the old man thoroughly well versed in all 
the legends connected with the hero. 

I had read about him, as who has not ; had even 
followed his campaign on the map, and pondered over it 
as I rested at the foot of his monument ; but the dry bones 
of history came to life as we sat there in the sunshine, and 
the cripple told the story, in his convincing colloquial 
fashion. 

There is nothing like hearing the legends of the old 
heroes and saints, related by the peasants amid the scenes 
of their long past struggles. These Celts of Auvergne are 
fond of talking and talk well. They have strong imagina- 



36 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

tions, and they tell a story as though it had happened but 
yesterday, with little personal details thrown in, which add 
greatly to the charm and conviction of the whole narrative. 
No doubt the information so acquired is somewhat em- 
broidered, less reliable than that gathered from books ; but 
it sticks in the memory and lives, so that after a time the 
whole country seems peopled with historical personages, 
who come and go, walk by our side, tell us their joys and 
sorrows, and when later we go to their castles, their old 
churches and monasteries, we shall find them there 
before us, waiting to welcome us to the homes they once 
occupied. 

" If I could only walk," said the landlord in conclusion, 
for the first time showing a touch of impatience at his 
infirmity, " I would take you all over the plateau, and 
explain how it happened, Madame." 

About a mile from Gergovia is the curious village of 
Roche-Blanche, with its many-storied dwellings, excavated 
in the chalky cliff. It is one of the most beautiful walks I 
know, from Gergovia to Roche-Blanche. The path lies 
through vineyards, for we are still in the diocese of Saint 
Verney, and everywhere you see his worshippers tending 
the vines, with their little wooden casks hanging to their 
belts, their dogs keeping guard beside them, and the legs 
of their old white horses stained green with the copper of 
the dressing they use. 

Roche-Blanche lies on a steep slope, leading upward to- 
ward the great chalky cliff under which the town nestles. 
The original village was burrowed in this cliff, like a rabbit 
warren, and no doubt dates back to quite prehistoric times, 
though the caves have been enlarged and added to, as man 
became more and more adept in the art of excavation. 
Later, the inhabitants deserted these dens for houses built 



ROCHE-BLANCHE 37 

against the base of the cliff, and now, still lower down the 
slope, there has grown up around the church a compara- 
tively modern town. The whole forms a most picturesque 
example of the evolution of the dwelling-house ; the 
elaborate caves above, hollowed out story above story, 
their entrances raised many feet above the ground, for 
purposes of fortification ; the cottages immediately below, 
their back walls formed by the cliff against which they rest ; 
and at the foot of these, the modern town, with its white 
stone walls and red-tiled roofs, the church rising in the 
midst. It is all so crowded into the curious, saucer-like 
hollow beneath the hillside, that the streets are mere 
narrow stairways, carpeted with straw and litter, where 
chickens feed and pigs and goats wander, while the women 
gather in groups in the shade, gossiping as they work at 
their embroidery and lace-making. 

Beyond Roche-Blanche is Le Crest, well named from 
the position it occupies on its lofty hill-top. I remember 
that walk so well ! We were anxious about the path, and 
inquired of a woman who was talking at a doorway at 
Roche-Blanche. 

" Madame wishes to go through Le Crest to Saint- 
Amand ? " she asked eagerly. " I myself am for Saint- 
Amand. If the gentlefolk permit, we will walk together, 
and I will show them a short cut." 

Of course I asked nothing better, and we wandered on, 
chatting gaily, at least she chatted and I listened gaily. 

It appeared that she had been over to Roche-Blanche 
to see her sister, and was now on her way back to Saint- 
Saturnin, a village just beyond Saint- Amand, where she 
had left her baby in her mother's charge. 

" It is the first time that I have been parted from him," 
she explained, " and I am in haste to see him once more ! " 



38 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

How she talked ! In a few moments I knew all her 
history, her simple peasant history, the record of the little 
things which made up the sum of her life. 

" Picture to yourself, Madame," she exclaimed ; " I found 
myself forty-five and no child ! I had married late, and 
my first baby died. Ah, what sorrow that was ! And 
the years were passing ; at forty-five one is already old, 
even in Auvergne," and, as she spoke, I thought of the 
lady mentioned by Flechier, who told him that "the 
women of Auvergne had children later than the women 
of other lands, just as the Day of Judgment would not 
come to the Auvergnats till it had passed over all the 
rest of the world." 

"Then one day," continued the woman, " Maman, who 
had seen me fretting, said to me : ' Philomene, why not go 
to Notre Dame du Port, and ask her to send you a little 
one in the place of her you have lost?' Madame knows 
Notre Dame du Port ? " she asked suddenly, breaking off 
in her narrative. 

I shook my head. " Not yet," I replied, " but I hope to 
make her acquaintance soon." 

It was said lightly, but the serious face of the woman 
warned me in time. 

" Do so, Madame ! Our Lady of the Port is the greatest 
saint in the world. Ah, what do I not owe her ! I, who 
had given up all hope ; and now, voila, un beau garcon ! " 
and her elderly wrinkled face beamed, and grew young 
again at the thought of her happiness. 

" How old is your son ? " I asked. 

" Four months, but he is like a child of a year, so strong, 
so intelligent." 

" And you have never been parted before ? What time 
did you leave Saint-Saturnin ? " I asked, hoping from my 



WOMAN OF SAINT-SATURNIN 39 

heart that no accident had occurred to this more than 
Samuel. 

" About two hours ago ! " 

" Two hours ? But you must have run all the way ! 
Why, it would take any other woman four ! " 

" Not if she had a baby like mine waiting for her ! Ah, 
he puts wings on my feet, the little angel ! " 

The name of the prodigy, it appeared, was " Francick," 
" Un joli nom, n'est-ce pas ? C'est le meme que Francois. 
J'ai un cousin qui s'appelle Francois." 

I asked if her husband was not pleased about the baby. 

" Oh, oui, assurement. Et Maman ! Elle est contente ! 
contente ! " She paused, then added naively with a smile, 
" Mais c'est moi surtout ! " 

For a moment she remained silent, her eyes gazing 
away over the hills to where her home lay, and I saw 
her lips move as though she were murmuring an endear- 
ment to the still distant baby. 

The little commonplace story moved me strangely, re- 
calling as it did so many of the legends told by old 
Jacques Branche of the birth of his favourite saints. I 
wondered whether this long-desired and miraculously 
given son would turn out some famous teacher or reformer, 
like Geraud or Nectaire, and, in spite of his humble origin, 
raise himself to be a buttress to support the failing fortunes 
of his Church. 

Presently my companion roused herself and returned to 
the subject of Notre Dame du Port. 

She told me the story of the statue being saved from 
destruction in the days of the Terror. 

" It is indeed fortunate that our Blessed Virgin escaped ! " 
said she ; " what would all the country do without her ? " 

" There are many miracles at her shrine ? " 



4 o AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

" Dame, oui ! Why, only last year there was Elise 
Lescure of Champeix, who had not walked for ten years. 
Ten years, Madame ! And she was moreover seventy 
years of age ! " 

" And she was cured ? " 

" Yes, she might no doubt have been cured before, but 
she had been averse to making the pilgrimage. ' I am 
too old ! ' she would say, ' and then again, how can I go 
with both my legs paralysed ? ' But her friends persisted. 
' Go with us ! ' said they, ' you shall take the diligence.' " 

" And she went ? " 

" Madame, I was there when she entered the crypt. It 
was pitiful. She was carried by two of her neighbours, 
who set her down at the foot of the staircase. The Mass 
began. I forgot Elise, for I was praying for myself, as I 
have already related. Just when Monsieur le Cure reached 
the place where it says : ' Miracle ! ' — Madame re- 
members ? " — I nodded sagely, without having, how- 
ever, the slightest idea to what she referred — " there 
was a loud, a frightful cry. You would have said it came 
from one possessed. Every one rushed toward Elise, and 
found her lying as one dead. For nearly an hour she 
remained thus, and when she recovered, lo ! she had the 
use of her limbs once more, and now works as well as ever 
she did in her young days." 

" Wonderful ! " said my husband, who had been listening, 
" do you have many such cases ? " 

" Not every day, Monsieur. You see one must have faith, 
and in these days so many have none. You find people who 
do not believe in God, or heaven, or even the Blessed 
Virgin ! They think that the rain and sunshine come by 
chance ! Ah, it is terrible, how I pity them ! For me it 
is easy to believe, but then, to be sure, in my own family, 



LE CREST 41 

have we not had proof ! There was my own grandmother 
who had saved the Blessed Virgin of Cornac, at the time 
when all the saints were being burned. A year or so later, 
she was crossing the river in a boat with her father, when 
the wind caught it and they were in great danger. ' Oh, 
Sainte Vierge ! ' she cried, ' I saved you from fire : save me 
now from the water ! ' In a moment, Madame, the boat 
was safely beside the bank ! After that it is not difficult to 
believe in the Blessed Virgin. " 

Here she stopped for a moment to take breath, and 
looked inquiringly at my husband. " Monsieur is perhaps 
not interested in such things. It is the women above all 
who need religion." 

" Indeed," said I, " all this interests him very much. You 
see he is a doctor." 

Instantly her face changed, and she dropped her voice to 
that respectful awed tone, which the peasant of Auvergne 
apparently always thinks it prudent to assume when in the 
presence of the faculty. She still talked, but now all her 
attention centred round the mysterious Medicine Man 
whom it was so desirable to propitiate. " Does the gentle- 
man not grow tired of travelling?" she inquired; " can he 
eat the food of Auvergne ? How does he like the wine ? 
Does he think the children as healthy as in England?" 
And so on, but always in a stealthy whisper addressed to 
me, with a furtive glance at my companion. 

We had been climbing the slope which leads from the 
upland valley to the rounded hill, on whose top Le Crest 
fits like a skull-cap, one ruined tower all that remains of 
the castle of the famous house of Roche Aymon. As we 
turned for a moment to glance at the way we had come, we 
caught a view of the Puy de Dome. A light cloud, which 
had been floating by, had rested for a moment on its summit. 



42 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

" He's putting on his nightcap ! " said my husband. 

But the woman whispered to me as she turned away : 
" Say nothing ! It will rain before night. As the shepherds 
tell us in these parts — 

" e Si le Puy met son chapeau, 
II faut prendre un manteau 
Car il y aura de l'eau ! ' " 

Like all peasants, nature was for her full of significance. 
As Eliphas Levi says, " every natural object seeming but a 
hieroglyphic to express some inward truth." Did a cuckoo 
sound his note, instantly her hand went into her pocket. 
" If you have money in your pocket when you hear the 
cuckoo, you will have some all the year ! " she exclaimed. 
She told me that there had been a great hay harvest, which 
I had noticed for myself, but that the grapes weie bad, 
indeed everything else was bad, would be bad, adding, 
" annee de foin, annee de rien ! " which of course means that 
to get a good crop of hay so much rain is necessary that 
everything else will be spoiled. 

As we were passing the castle, a bat flew out and circled 
round my head, at which she shuddered and crossed 
herself. 

" C'est la Mort qui cherche quelqu'un ! " she observed. 
" Fermez les yeux, Madame, fermez les yeux, he will very 
likely faire tomber quelque chose, and that will blind 
you." 

She told me that the moon sailing the wrong side up 
meant bad weather, which I think must be an old Celtic 
saying, for I have heard it in several places. 

" Annee de noisettes, annee de filles ! " she remarked, as 
we passed a little nut wood on our way down. " Never 
did I see so many nuts as the year my little girl was born. 



!% 



Si. 





SAINT-SATURNIN 43 

And now this year, when it is a boy, there are scarcely 
any." 

Saint- Amand is hardly worth a visit, so thoroughly has 
it been restored ; but the little village of Saint-Saturnin, 
about a mile farther on, is a marvel of picturesqueness, 
still surmounted by its castle and surrounded by its 
fortifications. After passing through the old gateway, the 
road goes steeply up, past the church into the Place, once 
the courtyard of the castle, which still forms one side of 
it. If you are so fortunate as to meet Monsieur le Recteur, 
as we did, coming to fetch water for lunch from the 
beautiful fountain, which still supplies the wants of the 
little town, he will probably invite you into the castle, now 
used as the Presbytery, and from its windows you will find 
yourself looking down into one of those sudden ravines 
which cleave the highlands of Auvergne, as surprisingly as 
the sword of Roland cleft the mountains of the Cirque de 
Gavarnie. 

Monsieur le Recteur was a very agreeable man, proud 
of his church and village, too proud perhaps, for it is largely 
owing to his energy that the fine twelfth-century building 
has been renovated, and, from a picturesque point of view, 
entirely ruined. However, it no doubt serves its true 
purpose as a place of worship the better for the restora- 
tion, so we must not complain ; only it is sad to find the 
splendid capitals retouched, sometimes even replaced ; 
sadder still to miss the familiar statues of the patron saints. 
So far as I remember, even Saint Saturnin has disappeared. 
It is difficult to say what precise connexion the village 
had with the first Bishop of Toulouse: perhaps his 
friend Saint Austremoine named it in memory of 
him, when he came out from Clermont on one of his 
episcopal visits. 



44 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

The castle, now occupied by Monsieur le Recteur, was 
formerly in the family of La Tour d'Auvergne, from which 
it passed to that of Rochechouart, and later to the Lords 
de Broglie, who owned it up to the time of the French 
Revolution. 

It is impossible to speak of all the charming villages 
which lie hidden in the folds of the mountains round 
Clermont — their name is legion ! There is Champeix, 
easily reached by one of the motor-buses which start from 
the Place de Jaude. We found it a hot ride, but we had 
taken a great bag of cherries, which we shared with a dear 
old priest, who in return told us stories about the country 
as we passed along. 

At Champeix we found an old-fashioned inn where 
we lunched at an upper window, overlooking the sleepy 
market-place. The landlady, finding we were English, 
made special efforts to entertain us suitably, getting out 
all her best table service, and cooking us a grilled steak, 
which, to tell the truth, would have been decidedly better 
minced or stewed. It appeared that for ten years she had 

lived in England as maid, in the family of Lady D , 

and had been so happy there that all English people were 
for her, in a measure, sacred ! After calling our attention 
to the cruets and various other plated goods, which she 
proudly proclaimed " Engleech," adding that her " lady " 
had given them to her on her marriage, she produced with 
much pride a large album, which contained, indeed, a 
wonderful collection. She must evidently have travelled 
with her mistress, for there were postcards she had collected 
from all kinds of places, both foreign and English. There 
were views, too, of noble country-houses, and photographs 
of noted leaders of English society, portraits of her mistress 
in various court dresses and ball dresses, pictures of the 



CHAMPEIX 45 

Royal Family, snapshots taken at race-meetings, and on 
board well-known yachts. 

But what interested me most of all was to find, scattered 
among these gay and fashionable mementoes, certain 
humble birthday cards carefully preserved and treasured : 
" Bonne et joyeuse fete, chere bien aim£e ! " or, " Mon coeur 
est a vous pour toujours, je ne vous abandonnerai jamais ! 
Celui qui vous aime si bien. J. B." Sometimes it would 
be a floral tribute, with the meanings of the various flowers 
carefully written below : — " Violette, Esperance." " Rose 
et Myosotis, Bonheur" — but always in the same peasant 
writing, telling of a hard rough hand, and difficulty with 
the spelling. Some bore distant postmarks, showing that 
" J. B." " faisait son conge," while his " chere bien aimee " 
was leading her gay life in London or Monte Carlo. As 
I looked at the poor little cards, I thought of the amuse- 
ment their arrival must have created among her fellow- 
servants. She had evidently been the favourite maid of 
her beautiful young mistress, had dressed her for her first 
drawing-room, for her marriage, as the pictures testified. 
She could probably have taken her choice among the 
lordly footmen or smart young grooms she was constantly 
meeting, for she must have been a very pretty girl, and 
attractive, as the women are in Auvergne. But she never 
forgot that somewhere at home, " J. B." was waiting for 
her, "son cceur a elle pour toujours ! " Besides, though the 
Auvergnat is fond of " emigrating " and seeing the world, 
he always returns sooner or later to his native country, 
bringing with him the little fortune he has managed to lay 
by during his sojourn in the " land of the stranger." 
"J. B." well knew she would return when he consented to 
his pretty fiancee adventuring herself in foreign parts. 
But I dare say that, more than once during those long ten 



46 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

years, his faithful heart misgave him, when she wrote of 
all the attentions she was receiving, and he pictured the 
dull hard-working life, which was all he had to offer her ! 

I had just turned from a portrait of Lord and Lady 

D , taken in company with some royal personage, to that 

of a plain young conscript with a round Celtic head and 
earnest faithful eyes, when, chancing to look up, I found 
the same eyes gazing down at me. There could be no 
doubt about their identity, though ten years must have 
passed since the photograph was taken, and the face and 
figure had broadened and aged. It was " J. B.," but with 
a twinkle in his eye, and a settled contentment about his 
mouth, which showed that he was well satisfied with the 
reward of his patience. 

" Do you know England ? " I asked. 

" No, Madame ! " as though I had inquired whether he 
knew Paradise; "c'est ma femme qui a ete en Angleterre." 

After lunch, we climbed the hill to the site of the castle, 
and found the chapel still intact, though unfortunately 
locked. Turning away, I noticed two elderly white- 
capped women, seated on the grassy slope outside the 
gate. They had evidently been watching us, but averted 
their eyes, and went on hurriedly with their lace-work, as 
they saw themselves observed, and when I asked whether 
they could tell us where to find the key, professed to be 
quite startled at seeing strangers in that quiet spot. In 
the most polite and dignified manner, they invited us to 
be seated, and it would have been difficult to find a more 
beautiful and luxurious resting-place. The summit of the 
hill was so small that it must have puzzled the ancient 
architect to find room for both castle and chapel. But he 
managed to squeeze them in, by putting the wall at the 
very edge of the steep slope, so that, as I sat beneath the 



CHAMPEIX 47 

ruined gateway, I looked straight down into Champeix, 
and could watch all the life of the place going on below. 

The women, it appeared, had come up for a breath 
of fresh air. " I said to my friend," explained the 
younger, "how foolish we are to sit in our houses when 
we might be up there in the sunshine ! " As they worked 
away, they began telling me about their lives. It appears 
that they get seven sous for the edging of a tablecloth, 
and, as it takes about three hours to fix on the braid, and 
four hours to finish, it works out at a halfpenny an hour ! 
Fortunately these particular women were not entirely 
dependent on their earnings, but worked, as they 
explained, to " fill up their odd time ! " 

They told me that the Chapel of Saint Michel on the 
rock was formerly a very sacred place, and the elder said 
that in her young days the cure of Champeix said Mass 
there every week. 

She added with a touch of bitterness : " But what will 
you ! It is the same everywhere. For religion, it is 
finished ! " She went on to speak of a place near by, 
called, I think, " Loshes," where " the grass was green and 
soft as satin, and the trees gave a pleasant shade in 
summer," and where formerly there was a splendid 
procession at the Fete of Saint Jean, and two fires, the 
first, that of the bracken, more smoke than flame, through 
which the cattle were driven, and next day the great fire, 
the charred branches of which were hung in the chimney 
to preserve from lightning. " But it is all over ! " she 
added with a sigh. " Our young people think no longer 
of anything but how to amuse themselves." 

The younger woman was more optimistic, and presently 
suggested the possibility of finding the key of the chapel. 
But her companion had by this time become so despondent 



48 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

with regard to anything, even remotely connected with 
religion, that she declared it was quite hopeless, as the 
bell-ringer had assuredly gone out haymaking. So we 
abandoned the idea, and, to cheer her, I asked whether 
they did not find the auto-bus to Clermont very convenient ! 
But it was an unfortunate remark ! Every species of 
automobile terrified her ! They were an invention of the 
Evil One, and, as for Monsieur le Directeur, who they said 
made so much money by them, everyone knew he had 
" la poulette " and had signed away his soul to the devil ! 
But there, it was all part of the changes that were coming 
over the world ! Look at the vines spoiled by the cold ! 
Who could say it was not a judgment of Heaven ! And 
the young people, no longer content to live as their grand- 
mothers had done : they must have change, diversion ! 
Donkey-carts were no longer quick enough, they wanted 
bicyclettes, auto-buses ! Bah ! she had no patience with 
them ! And she glanced down at two gaily dressed girls, 
who were laughing together in the market-place below, 
with a look so dark that it made me think of an ancient 
witch casting her evil eye upon them ! 

And indeed the fancy is not so far-fetched as you may 
think. It is perhaps true that Champeix is too near the 
centre of civilization for such superstitions to be common. 
But away in Cantal and Correze we shall still find them 
rampant as they were in the Middle Ages. For this 
Auvergne is almost virgin ground, so far as education and 
progress are concerned. Few of the people can read or 
write a year after they have left school ! They believe in the 
statues of their saints, as their forefathers believed in the 
idols which preceded them. The cult of the forests, the 
stones and the fountains, remains as popular as ever ; and 
as for evil spirits, witches, fairies, and other supernatural 



WERE WOLVES 49 

agencies, the land is as full of them as Israel was, before 
the days of Saul. 

There is the " Loup Garou," the " Were Wolf," a terrible 
beast is he ! " Were Wolves " derive their origin from 
ninth sons, hence their frequency in Auvergne, where large 
families are the rule. He always has some special mark 
upon him, a fieur-de-lys or broad arrow, and at nightfall 
it is his custom to hasten off to some secret place, where 
he changes his form to that of a wolf. Then till daybreak 
he rushes about the country, worrying sheep, killing cattle 
and even men. For seven years the " Were Wolf " 
continues his evil practices, and if during that time he is 
wounded, he becomes an actual wolf till the day of his 
death. I have somewhere read the story of a " Were 
Wolf" whose young wife, suspecting from his frequent 
absences from home that all was not as it should be, 
followed him, saw him change into his uncanny costume, 
and the next day had the boldness to go and steal his furs. 
But it brought her no luck. With or without his skin, 
the man was a " Were Wolf," and was finally hunted down 
and torn to pieces by his own dogs. 

And the " Drac " or Draco ! He it is, wicked little 
demon, with fluid diaphanous body, who, after sleeping all 
day in the woods or beside the fountains, creeps at night- 
fall into the stables, and unfastening the horses, rides 
them furiously all over the country, so that in the morn- 
ing they are found trembling and covered with foam. 
There is no end to the tales told of the doings of this 
" Drac," who is only too common among the desolate 
mountain villages of Cantal. 1 

1 It appears that the only hope of circumventing this troublesome " Drac" 
is to search for the hole by which he enters, and just before it to place a dish 
of millet seed. This he stumbles over, spilling the seed, which he is obliged 
to pick up to the last grain, before he can proceed to his evil practices. 
4 



So AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

And there are the " Fades " or fairies, own sisters of the 
other Celtic fairies whom we find in Brittany, Wales, and 
Ireland. And the " Chevauche Vieille," a monster who 
settles on the chests of old people as they lie asleep, and 
tries to suffocate them. And there are others — but the 
most feared of all is the Evil Eye ! 

On our return to the hotel at Champeix, we found that 
the landlady had brewed some tea for us in a magnificent 
English-plated teapot, of stupendous proportions, part of 
the celebrated wedding present ; and while we were sip- 
ping, and waiting for the " Machine Diabolique " to start, 
I asked her if she ever regretted England, or found it 
difficult to settle down again to her quiet country life. 
For a moment she looked at me in puzzled surprise, then, 
" Mais non, Madame, pas du tout ! It is true that England 
is beautiful, beautiful, and rich. . . . Mon Dieu ! yes, that 
is true also ! And my lady was an angel from heaven, if 
ever there was one. But on the other hand Auvergne is 
my native country. There is no land so sweet as that 
which gives us birth. And besides," she looked down, and 
twisted her wedding ring, " there was always Jean waiting 
for me ! " 

It happened that " J. B.," having business on the road, 
travelled part of the way back with us. But as soon as 
he was deprived of his wife's support, he became so taciturn 
that I found it impossible to draw him out, and left him to 
the driver, with whom he held a lively discussion in patois 
till he reached his destination. 

Some fifteen kilometres to the north of Clermont is 
the city of Riom, capital of the Duchy of Auvergne till 
Catherine de Medicis cast a favouring eye on Clermont, 



RIOM 51 

and declared the two towns equal in importance. Ever 
since then, a deadly jealousy has existed between Riom 
and her southern sister, giving rise to quarrels which, 
during several centuries, constituted the chief events of 
that part of Auvergne. All manner of legends have been 
invented to account for this vendetta, some authors even 
going the length of asserting that the Riomois are descended 
from the son of "a certain Greek king of the Island of 
Rhions," just as the rest of the Auvergnats claim the 
Trojans as ancestors, and that the present feud is merely 
the aftermath of that little difference of opinion which 
occurred about 1500 B.C. 

It was nevertheless a bishop of the rival Clermont, 
Etienne VL, who gave Riom its chief glory, the beautiful 
church of Saint Amable. The Bishop had angered the 
Count of Auvergne, who came and besieged him while he 
was on an episcopal visit to Riom. Finding himself in 
danger, the prelate called upon the patron saint of the 
district, promising to raise a church in his honour if he 
would but interfere. Saint Amable must have heard the 
cry, for the Count retired discomfited, and the church 
arose forthwith. 

It is this very Saint Amable round whom, until recent 
years, gathered most of the traditions of Riom. He was a 
native of this town, much beloved during life, and after 
death revered like some old Celtic chief. There was 
scarcely a public function in which his body was not called 
upon to take part. Was there a fire to be extinguished, 
a prince or duke to be welcomed, an epidemic to be quelled, 
some great townsman to be married or buried, the reliquary 
of Saint Amable borne by Les Porte-Chasse, clad all in 
white, was taken solemnly in procession round the town. 
There were in addition his regular festivals, which indeed 



52 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

are still held. In fact this Saint Amable has always been 
the popular hero of Riom. He was credited with extra- 
ordinary powers over serpents and other noxious beasts, 
and it is said that even to-day no snake ever comes within 
the bounds of the parish. I have read somewhere a curious 
story of a serpent-charmer, who brought some vipers into 
the town, and was about to exhibit them, when, just as he 
had opened the box in which they lay coiled, an old man 
was seen approaching. Instantly the snakes glided out, 
and made off as fast as they could in all directions. 
According to Riom belief, the old man was Amable, who, it 
is averred, has more than once appeared in this guise. On 
one occasion a servant who had stolen wine from a cellar 
near the church, found himself in the clutches of this 
mysterious old personage, and was beaten till he was covered 
with blood, but on confessing his fault he was immediately 
healed. Such is the saint whom the people of Riom glory 
in proclaiming as their patron. 

But the most striking thing concerning Amable is his 
connection with the worship of the sun. Several of his 
legends seem to suggest that he must have superseded 
some Gaulish Apollo once adored in the neighbourhood. 
For instance, it is said that one day in church, having 
occasion to remove his cloak and gloves, he was looking 
round in uncertainty, not knowing where to put them. 
Suddenly a sunbeam shot through the window, and the 
saint, in no way surprised, immediately hung his garments 
upon it, where they remained till he needed them again. 

It was down this same sunbeam that an angel came 
another day, bearing a large box of relics for Saint Amable. 

But the most convincing proof of the connection between 
Amable and the god of the sunshine, is to be seen at his 
festival on the eleventh of June. In front of his reliquary 



MARSAT 53 

is borne a huge wheel, which, as the procession passes 
along the roads, is turned incessantly. To-day it is of 
flowers, but formerly it was made of iron, and on it was 
wound a wax candle weighing twenty-two pounds, so fine 
drawn that it was supposed to be long enough to reach 
from Riom to the village of Marsat, the goal of the pil- 
grimage. Arrived there, the giant candle was placed on a 
very ancient stone at the entrance to the village, and offered 
to the Black Virgin, which may still be seen queening it 
over the altar of the church. The statue itself has probably 
replaced that of some goddess of the waters, for the very 
name Mar-SA signifies a course of water. It was one 
evening that I visited the ancient church of Marsat, and 
already too dark to see distinctly the face of the dusky 
statue. But I made out the old iron wheel on which the 
wax used to be carried, hanging from the roof just before 
the altar. 

At the door of the Church of Saint Mathuret at Riom 
there is another statue of the Virgin much revered by 
the good people of the town. La Vierge a L'OlSEAU 
it is called, and if you inquire concerning it, you will be 
told that it was carved by a prisoner condemned to 
death for some crime of which he was guiltless. He was 
a stone mason, and finding himself unable to convince his 
judges of his innocence, he put his trust in the Virgin. 
" Give me forty days," said he. "In that time I will carve 
you a statue of La Bonne Dame. If, when she is finished, 
she smiles, you will know that I am innocent." 

The judges, good simple souls, were satisfied, and there 
smiling at her little Son, still stands La Vierge a l'Oiseau. 
The gayest stories of Riom are those belonging to the end 
of the fourteenth century, when Pierre de Bourbon, and 
his royal wife, Anne de France, were living there. That 



54 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

was the time when, in the castle of Tournoel on the hill 
above the city, dwelt that gay and naughty lady, Catherine 
de Talaru, of whom you may read so many entertain- 
ing things in Monsieur Gomot's book on the history of 
Tournoel. She was a young widow and a great beauty, and 
held such a scandalous court up in the old castle, that at 
last she was called to account by the " bailliage de Mont- 
ferrand," who denounced her as a " Circe, a Melusine, a 
witch, and a sorceress." 

Of all the excursions around Clermont, the most wonder- 
ful is that to the Puy de Pariou. The volcano lies at about 
three miles distant from La Baraque, the little wayside 
station on the route to the Puy de Dome. 

It is the strangest walk imaginable, a broad track leading 
over hollow-sounding peat bogs, and beds of ancient ashes, 
hemmed in on either hand by towering billows of lava, 
petrified in mid-career — not a tree, not a bush, scarcely a 
flower, a haunted waste of blackened earth, scantily clothed 
by a ghostly covering of pallid, scorched, unwholesome- 
looking grass ! 

Directly we left the lane leading from La Baraque into 
this wilderness, we were conscious of a distinct change of 
atmosphere. The sun, while doubling his heat-giving 
power, seemed to have lost most of his cheerful radiance, so 
that, in spite of its being mid-summer, the land was dark 
and sinister, a dead land, exhaling a hot acrid perfume, 
which I never remember to have noticed elsewhere. The 
silence too was startling. Even our feet made no sound, 
save a hollow rumble, as though we were walking over 
vaults, and the utter solitude was but intensified by the 
mysterious grass-grown tracks, which led from various 
points toward the mountain. As we trudged on over the 
flat deserted waste, we gradually forgot the fruitful smil- 



PUY DE PARIOU 55 

ing plain we had so lately left ; the cheerful bustling world 
of men and women — we had entered the Land of the 
Volcanoes ! There they were, frowning down upon us, a 
mighty formidable group, and foremost of all, standing 
alone like an advance guard, was Pariou. The monotony 
of the place was so complete, that, keeping our eyes fixed 
upon the mountain, it seemed as though we were standing 
motionless, and the huge cone advancing, bearing down 
upon us, and all the while the sun shone with the strange 
lurid light of a flaming furnace. The flatness continued 
to the very foot of the mountain, for Pariou rises from the 
peat bog like a sugar-loaf from a table. One moment we 
were still walking on level ground with the great cone 
looming above us, the next we were scrambling and swarm- 
ing up its steep side, through the thick mass of scrub which 
clothes it almost to the summit. This undergrowth was 
most annoying, high enough to make progress difficult, and 
too low to afford any shelter from the sun, which blazed 
down, for all the world as though the volcano above were 
still in eruption. For a while I struggled gallantly, leaving 
bits of my garments hanging like votive rags to the bushes. 
At last, sinking forward against the steep slope, I gasped 
out that I could go no further. My husband, partly owing 
to his more rational costume, had by this time reached the 
summit, which, to tell the truth, was not very far distant. 

" Come along ! " cried he cheerfully, " you're nearly at 
the top ! " 

" But is it the top ? " I asked suspiciously, remembering 
many disappointments experienced on mountain climbs. 
I saw him nod, so I rose and stumbled on again a few steps. 

" I can't ! It's impossible ! " I panted, " I must give it 
up ! " But down came the voice. " You'll be sorry all 
your life if you do ! " 



56 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

" Is it so very wonderful ? " 

This time the head nodded up and down like a man- 
darin's ! So one more effort, and, just as I stop and begin 
sliding down again, a hand stretched out, a final scramble, 
and I find myself on a narrow rim of soft green turf, 
stretching away, and meeting again in a huge circle, and 
within its arms the crater of Pariou. Imagine an empty 
egg-shell, a quarter of a mile across and three hundred feet 
deep, smooth as though it had been turned on a lathe, and 
clothed with a perfectly fitting covering of fine velvet 
grass. Round and round this cup, from top to bottom, 
winds a narrow, close, spiral path, worn by generations of 
the ancestors of those cows who are just now feeding in 
single file on the farther side of the rim. Nearer at hand 
is a woman who sits knitting, while her little boy and two 
rough-looking dogs keep guard over the cattle. The 
contrast between this peaceful pastoral group, and the 
wild and terrifying picture which rises in my mind, of what 
the crater must once have been, forms one of the most 
striking memories of Auvergne. 

The woman told me that, even in the coldest winter, 
snow never lies at the bottom of the crater, which is 
always warm and green. The cows belonged to the 
village, and every day she brought them up here to feed. 
She might, she said, have earned more, either by working 
in the fields or going down to Royat as a washerwoman. 
" But it is so beautiful up here, the sunshine is better than 
gold ! " she added, with a touch of the Pantheism usual in 
the Celtic peasant. 

As we sat there, she pointed out to me the other craters, 
naming them, in her curious patois. And all the time 
beside us, rose the great form of the Puy de D6me, no 
longer grim and forbidding, but delicately beautiful, 



PUY DE PARIOU 57 

revealing himself through a pale turquoise mist in all his 
shining splendour. 

As we rose to go, I hesitated. The outer side of the 
mountain looked so steep and rough, after the smooth 
green crater. 

" Take your time, Madame ! " said the woman en- 
couragingly, " take your time, pick up your skirt, and you 
will get down ! " 

I have done so ! Already the Pariou lies behind us, the 
cows, on the skyline, growing small as ants, the sound of 
their bells fainter, and the great Puy de Dome has once 
more shrouded himself in his wrappings. But I know him 
now as he is, for he has shown himself to me, as he will to 
anyone who, like myself, struggles to the top of Pariou, to 
offer a sacrifice of admiration and wonder to his golden 
majesty. 



CHAPTER IV 

Clermont — The Coming of Saint Austremoine — The Church of 
Notre Dame du Port — The Preaching of the First Crusade — The 
Black Virgin of Clermont — The Revolution at Clermont — The Sacred 
Well — Sidonius Apollinaris — The Cathedral — Blaise Pascal — 
Ferrand 

SURELY Flechier did the city of Clermont an injustice 
when he wrote of it in the seventeenth century, 
" There is scarcely a town in France more disagreeable ! " 
He goes on to assert that the situation is inconvenient, at 
the very foot of the mountains ; that the streets are so 
narrow that even the broadest is scarcely the width of a 
single carriage, and that, in consequence, " the drivers of 
Clermont have become more accomplished in the art of 
swearing than those of any other city ! " 

It is true that the streets are narrow, winding, and steep. 
They have been so ever since Bishop Stephen of Auvergne, 
anxious to repeople the city devastated by the Normans 
in 940, gave permission for anyone to come and set up a 
house, where and how he would. But to an artist the 
maze-like irregularity is charming, infinitely picturesque ; 
the old streets and forgotten squares full of rich southern 
lights and shadows, the whole reminiscent of the saints 
and heroes who once trod them. 

I shall never forget the day when I first saw Clermont, 

its cathedral standing out clear, purple, and alert against 

the dreamy background of mountains, the red roofs of the 

sleeping town (it was early morning) clustering at its base. 

s« 



CLERMONT 59 

Approaching from the same direction as Flechier did, two 
hundred years ago, its "inconvenience" never struck me 
at all. Instead, I realized in a moment, why the great 
Roman Emperor Augustus chose this unparalleled site on 
which to build his favourite city of Augusto Nemetum. 
It is, as Guy de Maupassant has said — " Le pays le 
plus s^duisant, le plus doux, le plus reposant que j'ai 
jamais vu." 

It is said that in the days of the Roman conquest, the 
plain was still covered with forest, from the midst of which 
rose the hill Naomh-ait or the "sacred place," so-called be- 
cause here the Druids had their mysterious seat. No one 
can tell exactly where this worshipping place was situated, 
but is it not probable that the sacred oak which formed its 
centre grew near the fountain which to-day bubbles before 
the subterranean altar of Notre Dame du Port, and that 
the much-disputed name "Port " or " haven " dates back to 
the days when this spot was a Druidic shrine, with right of 
sanctuary for any criminal who sought it? Indeed I would 
go so far as to suggest that the tiny black statue of Notre 
Dame du Port may possibly have been carved from the 
heart of the ancient oak tree, beneath whose branches 
Druidic sacrifices were once offered, and where, it is said, 
the hero Vercingetorix first learned his impending fate 
from the prophecies of the Arch-Druid. 

After the conquest of the Celts, the Romans, following 
their usual practice, destroyed Gergovia, the old capital of 
Auvergne, and built a new city at Naomh-ait. This 
Augusto Nementum, as it was called, quickly became cele- 
brated for its splendour and learning. It was a place of 
palaces and temples, while above it on the Puy de 
Dome was raised an enormous statue of gilded bronze, 
representing the god Mercury, set there to protect the 



60 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

town from storms, such as still rush down from 
mountain. 

It was toward the gate of this sumptuous city, that there 
came one evening a poor weary-looking foreigner. He 
had travelled on foot from the town of Lezoux, to-day 
Chateau-Laudun, where he had made himself notorious by 
his destruction of the false gods in the Temple of Apollo. 1 
As he approached Nemetum, he gazed with wonder and 
sorrow at the temples which rose on every hill-top. A 
rich citizen, who was passing, stopped to ask him his 
business. " I have come to preach a new religion ! " said 
Austremoine, " a religion which necessitates the giving up 
of all such earthly pleasure and magnificence as I see 
around me, for a life of penitence and mortification." 
" How extraordinary ! " remarked the gentleman, " and you 
really expect people to adopt such a poor religion as that ? 
Look at our temples, our splendid and ancient ritual, our 
civilization, education and philosophy ! " " Nevertheless," 
said Austremoine quietly, but with a gleam in his ear- 
nest dark eyes, " I shall convert this city to my despised 

1 The legend says, that on arriving in Auvergne, Austremoine did not 
go straight to Clermont, but took up his abode in the house of a widow 
named Claude, at Chateau-Laudun. Here he passed his nights in 
prayer, and his days in catechizing and preaching, and was altogether so 
indefatigable that, as Pere Branche expresses it, in his quaint sixteenth-century 
French : " II donna une si grande epouvante aux Demons qui estoient adorez 
dans le Temple d'Apollon qu'ils brisoient leurs Idoles et sortoient parmy l'air 
visiblement, crians et hurlans avecque mille plaintes." Thereupon the priests 
of the temple roused the people against Austremoine, and it would have gone 
hardly with him, had not the Almighty sent a timely earthqnake which wrecked 
the temple and killed a number of those who were tormenting the missionary. 
This convulsion of nature answered a double purpose, for beside frightening 
the priests who were the ringleaders of the riot, it provided Austremoine with 
dead bodies on which to exercise his skill as a miracle-worker, and so estab- 
lished his reputation as a saint or demi-god. 

It was after this startling commencement to his mission that he continued 
his journey toward the capital of the district. 



^- 



SAINT AUSTREMOINE 61 

religion, and I believe that shortly in all Auvergne there 
will not remain one head which does not bow before the 
Cross of Christ ! " " Poor fool ! " murmured the gentle- 
man pityingly, " why, I have heard of this Christ. He was 
crucified some fifty years ago, was He not, by one of our 
Proconsuls, for making a disturbance in Judsea ? If all 
our criminals are to be deified like this, we shall have 
enough temples and to spare." And he strolled on. 

The legend is given by Mosnier in his " Lives of the 
Saints of Auvergne," and he adds significantly : " Eighteen 
hundred years have passed since then, and the gorgeous 
city of Nemetum has been sacked ten times. But the Cross 
which Austremoine planted, still remains. It has seen 
generations disappear, centuries pass away, emperors 
flourish and fade, and still it shines over the ruins of the 
past with a lustre which nothing can dim." 

It is not known where Austremoine first " set up his 
Cross ! " He probably built a humble oratory on the spot 
where, later, Saint Namace raised the basilica of Saint 
Aleyre, spoken of by Gregory of Tours, and there are traces 
of another cell in the rock beneath the church at Royat. 
But it was surely not long before the great apostle of 
Auvergne made his way to the sacred Fountain of the 
Haven. When, five hundred years later, Saint Avit, Bishop 
of Clermont, built the chapel, now the crypt of Notre Dame 
du Port, he found traces of an earlier building, which may 
have been pagan, or on the other hand the ruin of a Christian 
structure, set up by Austremoine. Among the stones was 
discovered the little black image, which still after fourteen 
hundred years is one of the most venerated statues in 
France. 

In our days, the church, which has risen above the crypt, 
is so hemmed in by buildings, that it is quite difficult 



62 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

to find the iron gateway leading down to the ancient 
sculptured portal. But in Avit's century, the spot was still 
surrounded by forest, and later, when the trees disappeared, 
an enormous open space was left, now represented by the 
Place Delille. This was, no doubt, the extent of the 
ancient Druid sanctuary, and it was here that all the 
dukes, counts, barons, and knights of France assembled in 
1095 to hear Pope Urban the Second proclaim the First 
Crusade. 

It had been intended to hold this meeting at Le Puy in 
Velay, but so overwhelming was the response to the appeal 
of the bishops, that the Council found it necessary to 
transfer it to a larger town, and Clermont was selected. 

We can almost see the earnest faces of the crowd 
listening to the impassioned words of Peter the Hermit, 
as he speaks, with burning eloquence, of the outrages 
offered to the Christians in the East, and tells of the 
profanation of the sacred tomb of Christ. As he ceases, 
a great silence falls over the multitude, till the Pope, in 
a voice broken by emotion, makes his well-known appeal 
to the people of France. 

" Arm yourselves ! " he cries, " my dear sons ! Arm 
yourselves with the zeal of God, march to the help of your 
brethren, and the Lord Almighty will be with you ! " 

The first to offer himself was the Bishop of Le Puy, 
who, casting himself at the feet of the Pope, begged 
humbly to be decorated with the Red Cross. And at the 
sight, from the great assembly rose the cry : " Dieu le 
veult ! Dieu le veult ! " 

Then all the nobles hastened to the adjoining crypt of 
Notre Dame du Port, to consecrate their lances and swords 
to the service of God, before the miraculous statue of the 
Black Virgin. 




THE ENTRANCE TO NOTRE DAME DU PORT 



NOTRE DAME DU PORT 63 

But let us enter and see her for ourselves. 

The church of Notre Dame du Port is the earliest 
example of that curious and interesting style of architec- 
ture called Roman-Auvergnat. It was built in the tenth 
century over the original church of Saint Avit, partially 
destroyed by the Normans. 

It was a grey morning, when, having passed the group 
of cripples at the door, I first crossed the threshold of 
Notre Dame du Port, and found myself in the pillared 
dusk of the nave. The light was just sufficient to show 
the stilted arches and grotesque carvings on the capitals. 
What a sense of humour these old monks had ! Look at 
the expression of Adam, as he is dragged out of Paradise 
by the beard ! Eve has fallen, physically as well as 
spiritually, and is being trampled on by her husband in 
quite an orthodox fashion ! Yet how grand the building 
is ! Its sturdy, thick-set pillars and vaulted roof seem as 
eternal as the Church which created them. On either 
side of the entrance to the chancel is a staircase, leading 
down into the crypt. As we grow accustomed to the 
gloom, we become aware of a radiance streaming from 
below, and, stumbling through the chairs, make our way 
thither. On the halfway landing, where the stairways 
meet, a stout comely sister sits presiding over a mighty 
stack of candles of every size and price, and below, in the 
crypt, we can see pilgrims praying at the shrine of Our Lady 
of the Port. After the gloom of the church above, the 
sanctuary is dazzling, by reason of the crowds of votive 
candles left by the faithful. It is a wonderful place, a 
shrine of the Middle Ages ; the walls covered with votive 
tablets, the pillars hung with offerings. Yet one has eyes 
for nothing, save the mysterious black "goddess," who sits 
enthroned above the altar, as she has sat for the last 



64 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

1400 years. The curious ecclesiastical atmosphere of the 
place, and the scent of the flowers and burning wax 
gradually hypnotized me, till I found myself back in the 
days of Saint Avit, eighteenth Bishop of Clermont, and 
spiritual father of Gregory of Tours, from whose pen we 
have the saint's history. It was at the end of Avit's long 
life that he built the church of Notre Dame du Port, as a 
thankoffering for deliverance from the Black Plague, which 
for many years ravaged Clermont. The present crypt is 
his work, and the old altar, above which the Black Virgin 
is seated, is said to be that at which the angels officiated 
when the church was consecrated ! In the light of the 
candles I can almost see their shining forms and faces, 
and the bent figure of the old bishop, as he kneels in 
adoration upon the altar steps. 

It was here, in the crypt, they buried him, the great 
Gregory and Sidonius Apollinaris, another of his disciples, 
doubtless following as mourners. Here, in spite of the 
devastation wrought by the Normans, he continued to lie 
for twelve hundred years, and here, in all probability, some 
of his remains would still be found, save for another 
disaster which befell the church, the Revolution of 1793. 

We had been sitting there for some time, when down 
the street came the sound of harsh military music, the 
" Marseillaise " ! No doubt it was merely some boys' 
brigade or other harmless institution, but the rude sound 
clashed into the mysterious silence of the crypt so suddenly 
as to change my thoughts without rousing me from my 
reverie. As the band drew nearer, there was a rush of 
hurrying footsteps, voices, shouts, eager cries, till I pictured 
the street once more full of the mob of red-capped revolu- 
tionaries, coming to wreck the church and carry off the 



NOTRE DAME DIT PORT 65 

relics and statues to burn in the Place de Jaude, as happened 
a century ago. I thought of Jeanne Geneix Ribeyre 
stealing to the crypt, with the intention of saving the 
beloved statue of the Virgin. One of her daughters has 
told the story ; I found it in a little book at the Magazin 
de PEnfant Jesus, close beside the porch : — 

" My mother had heard that they were going to burn all 
the saints," she says, " and was ' dans l'huile bouillante ' for 
the Blessed Virgin, for whom she had a special devotion. 
At last she made up her mind to hide Her ; but she was 
so short that she could not reach the statue, and all the 
chairs had been already broken and burned. So she went 
and told Mademoiselle Saunier, a friend who was older 
and taller than herself. 

" ' If I were not so little,' said my mother, ' I would, at 
least, save the good Virgin of the Port ! ' 

" Then they put their heads together, and presently, at 
midday when the streets were empty, went to the crypt, 
where the tall Mademoiselle Saunier took down the statue 
and gave it to my mother, who, hiding it under her dress, 
ran home with it." 

All through the days of the Terror, the image remained 
hidden, its whereabouts known only to one or two devoted 
friends ; and when the evil days were past, the faithful 
learned with surprise and joy, that the beloved saint was 
safe, and saw Her restored to Her place of honour above the 
ancient altar in the crypt. 

As at last I rose to go, down the steps came a young 
woman carrying a large metal can and a bucket with a 
cord. After whispering to the Sister, she set down her 
burden, knelt, and began a long prayer. I could see her 
lips moving, and her eyes lifted toward the Black Virgin. 
Presently the girl rose, opened the altar rail, removed the 
5 



66 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

conical cover of the sacred well, and began murmuring 
some mystical formula. She then took the bucket, and 
with many prayers and pious ejaculations, proceeded to 
lower it. A pause followed, and she stood with bowed 
head and moving lips. Then she pulled it up full of the 
pure, life-giving water, which was an object of worship ages 
before Saint Avit, or even Saint Austremoine, preached 
Christianity in Auvergne ; and all the time the Virgin, above 
the altar, watched the ceremony, just as did the statue 
of the ancient Diva, who once presided over this sacred 
well. 

When the cover had been replaced and the final prayer 
uttered, the girl turned to go. 

" Would you have the goodness to tell me what you use 
that water for ? " I asked. 

She looked at me in surprise. 

" But for the sick, Madame ! " 

The Sister had been watching, and now came forward. 

" She is taking it to the hospital," she explained ; " go, 
Anne Marie, you are already late ! " 

When she had departed, the Sister, finding I still lingered, 
smilingly offered me a candle. 

" I will set it up on the stand, as soon as there is room," 
said she, as I paid my franc. After this it required but a 
question or so to lead her on to talk of the mysterious 
little statue which presides over this underground shrine. 
She told me of Saint Avit finding it, adding that the good 
bishop took it as a sign that the Blessed Virgin approved of 
the site he had chosen for the church. She mentioned 
many cures which had taken place there, directing my 
attention to the thousands of silver hearts with which the 
heavy pillars are wreathed, the crutches, and waxen models 
of limbs and babies. 



NOTRE DAME DU PORT 67 

"And She is never taken out ? " I asked. 

" Very seldom," said the Sister, " only on occasions of 
great public calamity. For instance, in the year 16 14, 
when the winter was so cold and long that every one was 
in despair, the clergy determined to carry the statue of 
Our Lady through the streets of the city. As they came 
back to the door of the church, the weather suddenly 
changed, the air became warm, the sun shone out, and 
in a few days the corn, so long buried in the earth, 
appeared." 

The Sister was ready enough with her naive legend of 
Saint Austremoine, assuring me that he was that parti- 
cular young man mentioned in the Gospel, who, 
wishful to attend the funeral of his father Judas and 
his mother Anne, was bidden by Our Saviour to " let 
the dead bury their dead." She informed me too, of 
the curious fact that the Religieuses du Bon Secours, 
whose duty it is to manufacture wafer for a vast number 
of churches, always use the sacred water of the fountain 
for mixing the paste. But she could tell me nothing 
satisfactory concerning the origin of this most celebrated 
of all the Black Virgins of Auvergne. And indeed 
who can ? 

During our stay at Clermont, we fell into the habit 
of spending the half-hour of twilight in the ancient 
crypt. No surroundings could have been more condu- 
cive to the working out of the sequence of events 
which have gone to build up the present cult of Notre 
Dame du Port. I used to sit there, in the shadow of 
one of St Avit's low squat pillars, gazing out at the 
radiance of the candles which always encircle the Virgin, 
till I grew to realize their significance as well as the 
Sister herself, who told me, in her grave subdued voice, 



68 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

how here, as elsewhere, the candle is the symbol of Jesus 
Christ. 

" Has not the Blessed Saint Anselm himself remarked," 
she would conclude, " that like as wax is produced by the 
virgin bee, so did Christ's body owe its origin to Our 
Virgin Lady? And as the wick dwells in the wax, so 
dwelt the divine soul of the Redeemer in His human body, 
which united, proclaimed His Divinity, even as the wick 
and wax show forth the flame." 

Yet all the while a passage of Bacon lingered somewhere 
in the back of my practical English mind, as throwing a 
possible light on the source of this universal burning of 
candles : — 

" The Romans had a god called Mars," says he, " that 
had been tofore a notable knight in battayle; and so 
they prayed to him for help, and for that they would 
speed the better of this knight, the people prayed and 
did great worship to his mother, that was called Februa, 
to whom they offered torches of burning candles, for 
hope to have the more help and succour of her son 
Mars. Then there was a Pope, that was called Sergius, 
and when he saw Christian people drawn to this false 
maumetry, he thought to undo this foule use and 
custom, and turn it into God's worship, and Our Lady's ; 
and gave commandment that all Christian people should 
come to church and offer up a candle brennyng, in 
the worship that they did to this woman Februa ; and 
do worship to Our Lady and to Her Sonne, Our Lord 
Jesus Christ." 

On one incident, however, in the history of the Black 
Virgin, the Sister waxed eloquent, and that was when she 
spoke of the statue being stolen about forty-five years 
ago. No one knew who had stolen it ; no one was even 



NOTRE DAME DU PORT 69 

suspected ! One morning, when the church was opened, 
the niche was discovered to be empty. 

The news caused consternation through the town : people 
went into mourning, women wandered about the streets as 
though they were homeless, Masses were said, ceaseless 
prayers offered, but all seemingly without avail. 

Nine years passed, when, one day, Monsieur Chardon, 
the Vicar-General, announced from the pulpit that the thief 
had confessed, and that on a given day the statue would 
be restored to its original place in the crypt. The name 
of the thief never transpired, nor the reason of the theft. 
But with regard to the facts leading to its restoration, the 
Sister declared that the sinner had told the priest he had 
seen tears flowing from the eyes of the Good Virgin of 
Heaven, and at the sight the realization of his crime 
overwhelmed him, and he confessed. 

If ever you go to Clermont, be sure to follow my 
example : go and spend some minutes of each day, in the 
mysterious perfumed radiance of the crypt of Notre Dame 
du Port. You will find plenty to occupy your thoughts, 
to rouse your imagination, for the whole history of 
Clermont has taken place since those thickset pillars were 
reared. You will find it haunted by all manner of ghosts. 
Sidonius Apollinaris is sure to rise before your mind's eye, 
with his charming wife Papianilla, daughter of the Roman 
Emperor Avitus ; and their four children, the boy Apolli- 
naris, and the three little daughters, Roscie, S6verienne, 
and Alcine. The story of the good Sidonius has always 
fascinated me : there is none more beautiful and human 
among all the legends of the Christian saints. He was a 
great poet like the mighty God Apollo, from whom his 
family and that of his cousins of Polignac claimed their 
descent. He wrote letters, too, in which life in Gaul 



70 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

during the fifth century is admirably portrayed. In still 
more ancient days, the forefathers of Sidonius were High 
Priests of Apollo, serving in the temple which formerly 
stood on the great rock of Polignac, near Le Puy. We 
will go there later, and see the remains of the famous 
" Oracle " to which kings and emperors resorted from all 
parts of Europe, and which was, no doubt, a source of 
considerable wealth to the ancestors of Sidonius. By the 
fifth century, however, they had abandoned their priest- 
hood and become Christian. 

While the children of Sidonius were yet young, he 
devoted himself to their education, bringing them up, as 
the legend says, " in the fear of the Lord ; himself the 
mirror of husbands and the glory of the people of 
Auvergne." But no sooner were they educated, than a 
further change seemed to come over him. His poetry, 
which up to that time had been more than tinged with 
pagan symbolism, became entirely Christian ; " instead of 
singing of Apollo, he chanted the praises of the Christ." 
His worldly ambitions were exchanged for heavenly aspira- 
tions, and, finally, he gave up his Prefecture to become 
Bishop of Clermont. His wife, Papianilla, retired to a 
house near the Palace with her daughters, where, in her 
solitude, she continued to watch over her fascinating 
unworldly husband. 

Like all Celts, he had not the faintest idea of economy, 
and gave so much away to the poor that he frequently 
had to sell his silver to raise money for his charities. It 
was then that Papianilla would come to the rescue, 
gathering together what remained of her " dot," buying 
back the well-remembered cups and vessels which she 
knew her husband loved, and bribing the servants of the 
Palace to put them again in their places. But it was of 



CATHEDRAL OF CLERMONT 71 

no avail, for the good bishop only sold them again, the 
next time he wanted money. 

On the way back to the hotel you will pass the 
cathedral, and no doubt turn in at the south door, standing 
for a moment to watch the sunlight flowing through the 
rose windows, rousing all manner of delicate tints among 
the purple shadows of the nave. For the cathedral is 
built of Volvic lava, a stone as eternal and variable as the 
sea. When the sky is overcast, it has a dark, gloomy 
appearance, giving rise to the saying that the churches of 
Auvergne are black and forbidding. But enter when the 
sun is streaming through the stained-glass windows, flood- 
ing the purple walls with light, all the living fires of the 
volcano, whence the lava flowed, seem glowing and 
scintillating once more, flickering around the arches, 
shooting up into the roof, lying in amethyst pools across 
the floor. There are days when I have forgotten the 
sacred character of the cathedral of Clermont, and fancied 
myself among the glories of the submarine palace of some 
sea king. 

This old city of Clermont has given birth to many saints 
since the Black Virgin of Le Port declared herself on the 
side of Christianity. 

There are the Galls, the Genez, the Bonets, all bishops, 
all nobles, great figures in the history of Auvergne. Some 
were even warriors — we read of a bishop in the fourteenth 
century officiating in the cathedral, with a bird of prey on 
a perch at his left hand, and a halberd carried at his right. 
Indeed, most of these early ecclesiastics of Auvergne bear 
a certain likeness to the haughty and mysterious Druids, 
of whom they were the successors. The moral evolution 
of several centuries was needed before we reach such 



72 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

characters as that of Massillon, that great and good bishop 
who did so much to reform the Church in the seventeenth 
century, and Blaise Pascal, whose father's house stands in 
the Cathedral Square. It was in one of the upper rooms 
that the little boy lay suffering from that mysterious ill- 
ness, spoken of by his sister, Madame Perier ; the chief 
symptoms of which were that the sight of water, or of 
his father and mother standing together, threw him into 
a convulsion. 1 

It was in this house, too, that Madame Pascal died, 
leaving her husband and young children so desolate, that 
they went away to Paris, where their story is too well 
known to need telling. Everyone has heard of the little 
fellow who discovered for himself most of the propositions 

1 In 1625, such illnesses were attributed to children having been " over- 
looked," and suspicion fell on a certain old woman, a pensioner of the Pascal 
household. As the child grew steadily worse, Monsieur Pascal sent for the 
old woman, and threatened to give her over to justice unless she healed his 
son. The witch prayed and stormed, but Monsieur Pascal was inexorable. 
Finally the woman acknowledged that the child had been bewitched, and 
promised to remove the spell on condition that some animal died in the boy's 
place, as " the curse had been to the death." On this, Monsieur Pascal 
suggested a horse, but the reply was that a cat would answer the purpose, and 
one being at hand, the old witch went off with it in her arms. As she de- 
scended the staircase, the noise of some people quarrelling outside startled her, 
and a window being open, she dropped the cat into the street below. It was 
but a few feet, but the animal, which had been quite well the moment before, 
fell dead, and when they picked it up it was stiff and cold. Upon this, the 
woman hastened to the garden, picked some herbs, which she mixed with 
flour and water, and taking the paste to Monsieur Pascal, told him to put it 
over the child's stomach. Immediately the boy fell into so deep a lethargy, 
that the doctors thought he was dead, and would have buried him, save for 
his father's interference. Shortly after, the old woman returned, saying she 
had forgotten to warn them that the child would lie as though dead till about 
midnight, when he would awake cured. Two hours after the appointed time, 
as the father and mother were watching him, little Blaise opened his eyes, 
smiled happily up at his parents, and never afterwards had any return of this 
curious malady. 






BLAISE PASCAL 73 

of the first book of Euclid, and wrote a learned treatise on 
conic sections, before he was sixteen years old ; they have 
heard, too, of his wonderful conversion and work amongst 
the poor of Paris. 

I was looking over a magazine — La Veillee d' Auvergne, — 
last June, when I came upon an article on Pascal, and in 
it a copy of the script found in his pocket after his death. 
Pascal had the habit of writing isolated words, which to 
him expressed thoughts, and no doubt in the paper thus 
carefully kept, there is the record of the wonderful moment 
when all his life became transfigured ; in short, it gives an 
account of his conversion. 



L'an de Grace, 1654 

Lundi, 23 novembre, jour de Saint Clement, pape et 

martyr, et autres au martyrologe, 

Veille de Saint Chrysogone, martyr, et autres, 

Depuis environ dix heures et demie du soir jusques 

environ minuit et demi, 

Feu 

"Dieu d' Abraham, Dieu d'Isaac, Dieu de Jacob," non 
des philosophes et des savants. 

Certitude. Certitude. Sentiment. Joie. Paix. 

Dieu de Jesus-Christ. 

Deum meum et Deum Vestrum. 

" Ton Dieu sera mon Dieu." 

Oubli du monde et de tout, hormis Dieu. 

II ne se trouve que par les voies enseign£es dans 
l'Evangile. 

Grandeur de Tame humaine. 



74 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

" Pere juste, le monde ne t'a point connu, mais je t'ai 
connu." 

Joie, joie, joie, pleurs de joie. 

Je m'en suis separe : 

Dereliquerunt me fontem aqua viva. 

" Mon Dieu, me quitterez-vous ? " 

Que je n'en sois pas separe eternellement. 

" Cette est la vie eternelle, qu'ils te connaissent seul vrai 
Dieu, et celui que tu as envoye, Jesus Christ." 

J6sus Christ. 

Jesus Christ. 

Je m'en suis separe ; je t'ai fui, renonce, crucifie. 

Que je n'en sois jamais separe. 

II ne se conserve que par les voies enseignees dans 
l'Evangile : 

Renonciation totale et douce. 

Soumission totale a Jesus Christ et a mon directeur. 

Eternellement en joie pour un jour d'exercice sur la 
terre. 

Non obliviscar sermones tuos. Amen. 

" Renonciation totale et douce ! " The words remind us 
of those of another great Celt, Ernest Renan, given to the 
world lately in the " Cahiers de Jeunesse," where the teacher, 
" too much of a Christian to be reckoned as such," as a 
modern French writer has said, has recorded his readiness 
to submit entirely to the will of God. " Allons ! veux-tu 
que je me fasse petit enfant, que je renonce meme a la 
science ? Je veux bien . . ." (cinquieme cahier, " Moi 
meme," chap, xxxix.). 

At the Hotel de l'Univers everything is smart and new, 
indeed it gives one almost a shock to enter the white 



HOTEL DE L'UNIVERS 75 

painted hall, and find oneself reflected everywhere in 
the looking-glass walls. At lunch, when we happened 
to be in, we sit at one of the little tables and study 
the guests, and a wondrous community they are. The 
hotel is next door to the theatre, where all the 
entertainments of Clermont are held, so besides the 
regular habitues of the Hotel de l'Univers, there are 
members of theatrical companies, operatic singers, dancers, 
musicians, managers. 

One Sunday, there happened to be a race-meeting in 
the neighbourhood, and we found ourselves crowded out 
of existence by men dressed like exaggerated English 
jockeys, and ladies in the tightest and brightest of Parisian 
costumes, their huge black hats resting on their shoulders, 
and their elaborately decorated faces almost hidden by 
the puffs of golden hair which hung down over their ears. 
They ate heartily, however, and seemed to enjoy them- 
selves vastly, judging by the noise they made. Their 
connexion with one another was not very easy to deter- 
mine, as they called each other by their Christian names, 
and changed partners at each meal. If, for instance, 
after mature consideration, one made up one's mind 
that Lucille of the violet feather was the wife of 
Gaston with the shepherd's plaid breeches, and crimson 
waistcoat, she was sure to go off next morning in 
Henri's automobile, leaving Gaston to console himself 
with Andree of the blue crepe de Chine, who, up to 
then, we had regarded as the spouse of Victor. All 
this was very distracting. 

A favourite question for discussion at our table used, 
I remember, to be French marriages versus English. 
I think it was a couple on the opposite side of the 
room who started us. He had so obviously the appear- 



76 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

ance of a man who, if it were to do, wouldn't do it 
again ! He was bored, yet so suspiciously courteous 
and respectful. 

" How could he ? " I had exclaimed, as I noticed the clay- 
coloured face with its beady eyes and crest of wiry black 
curls ! " I suppose it was one of those French marriages, 
arranged by the two mamans," and I pitied poor Monsieur 
from the bottom of my heart : and, when, as happened 
more than once, I noticed him glancing furtively at Lucille 
of the violet feather, who, though vulgar, was not — 
well, like Madame, I looked hastily at his better half, 
hoping for his sake she did not notice him. And she 
never did ! She was too much taken up with the salmi, 
or " bouches a la reine," or one of the other dainties for 
which the hotel is famed. 

Then one day I met her in the salon, nursing a large 
doll for the landlord's little girl. She looked more 
ridiculous than ever, for she had been playing with the 
child, and the black toupee was all on one side. Yet, for 
the first time, I understood the possibilities of the French 
marriage. We sat together and played with the little one, 
and, with that pathetic confidence a Frenchwoman is so 
ready to show to one of her own sex, she told me how 
her own child had died years ago, and showed me a little 
portrait which she kept inside the bosom of her dress. 

That evening, Monsieur was late for dinner, and T saw 
Lucille give him a warning smile as he passed her table. 
But it was of Madame I was thinking as I glanced hurriedly 
to see if she had noticed the salutation. 

Beyond, near the window, were a fat husband and wife, 
who looked more cheerful, as all their attention was 
evidently concentrated on the dinner. At the second 
course, her brother or his brother or some one else's 



ROYAT 77 

brother, you couldn't say which, for they were all exactly 
alike, came in and greeted them effusively, giving a hand 
to each to save time, his eyes fixed with eager anti- 
cipation on the "hors d'oeuvres." 

It was impossible to feel dull at the Hotel de 1'Univers 
New specimens of French humanity were always arriving 
There was the gentleman who had to have a hot brick on 
which to put his feet, and whose wife had two black and 
tan terriers. The husband ate nothing but boiled fish, 
while the wife contented herself with a bowl of bread and 
milk, the terriers systematically going through the whole 
of the seven or eight course dinner. And there was the 
professor who sat by the glass door, and conducted a 
discreet flirtation with the young lady at the desk in the 
hall. After meals we would go and sit on green chairs 
outside the hotel, and play with the landlord's little girl 
and her fox-terrier puppy, while our host talked about 
England, the Savoy, and the Carlton, where he had been 
trained, and had learned how to make his hotel one of the 
most comfortable in France. 

I have no time to take my reader to Royat, which is a 
pity, as, in spite of its being a mere health resort, and 
therefore not within the scope of this book, it is an extremely 
beautiful place where we should find a wonderfully interest- 
ing Romanesque church, built, so Flechier says, over the 
spot where Saint Austremoine, as mentioned above, had 
an oratory. 

Neither can we wander out to the village of Bois-S6jour, 
lying among the beautifully wooded hills to the south, and 
eat peaches and omelette-au-lard at the little inn opposite 
the church. In this church, by the by, painted up on the 
wall of the chapel dedicated to Saint Joseph, we found 



78 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

this curiously chosen text : " Allez a Joseph " ! (Gen. 

xli. 55)- 

But there is one short expedition we must take together, 
before setting out again on our travels. 

A mile or so out of Clermont, approached by one of 
those screaming electric trams, which, like banshees, haunt 
the Place de Jaude, is Ferrand, or Mont Ferrant as it was 
called in Froissart's days : and it is chiefly on account of 
those days that anyone now takes the trouble to leave 
wealthy Clermont and visit her squalid slatternly sister. 

Six hundred years ago Mont Ferrand was a rich and 
fashionable place. Great ladies dwelt there, and it was 
considered a more distinguished residence than Clermont 
itself. 

" In this town," says Geronnet de Maudurant, when 
making his plans known to the Captain of Chalucet, who 
had ransomed him and his companions from the hands of 
the Knight Sir John Bonne- Lance, " in this town there is 
great wealth, and wherewithal to plunder ; for besides its 
riches in silk and merchandise, many of the inhabitants 
have much money. 

Poor souls ! They have little enough now ! 

As we mounted the steep and gloomy street, down which 
the gay ladies once rode to meet their favourite knight Sir 
John Bonne-Lance, we were quickly surrounded by a crowd 
of ragged boys, clamorous to earn a penny by acting as 
guides to the town. " The church, Monsieur ? This way 
to the church ! " — " Pardon, Madame ! " and I found myself 
grappling with a youth, who wanted to be paid for carrying 
my camera. 

Finally, to escape their importunities, we accepted the 
invitation of a clean-looking old woman, who stood at the 
door of her house, like the proverbial spider, inviting 



FERRAND 79 

passers-by to " walk into her parlour ! " A queer old place 
we found it, full of an extraordinary collection of rubbish, 
which she dignified by the name of a " museum " ! But 
the building itself was interesting, ancient enough to have 
been the very house in which Sir John lodged his twelve 
prisoners, when he left them and went back to continue 
the siege of Ventadour. The old woman, however, knew 
nothing about such things : to her the past was the 
past, and anything that belonged to it went into her 
exhibition. 

"Voila, Monsieur-Dame, le parapluie de Papa!" as 
though she had shown us a shoe of Perrot le Bearnois. 
So presently I left her exhibiting the worthless daubs and 
rags of lace she called her " musee," and wandered upstairs 
to the big dark room, where it pleased me to picture the 
too-confiding Sir John giving his last charge to his prisoner, 
Geronnet de Maudurant. "You will remain here," says 
the knight, " as hostage for your companions, who are going 
to seek your ransom ; and when you have paid it, you may 
depart . . . and remember that I have treated you hand- 
somely, Geronnet." 

" On my faith ! " cries the brigand in his loud, devil-may- 
care voice, "on my faith, my fair lord and master, we are 
bounden by your generous conduct ! " 

But all the same, as Froissart says, " it would have been 
better for the town if Sir John had killed or drowned 
them ! " 

And so, no doubt, thought the rich merchants, and the 
Governor on that Thursday night in the following February, 
when the prince of brigands, Perrot le Bearnois, and his 
companions, were smuggled into the town by this same 
traitor Geronnet, and made themselves master of Ferrand 
and its riches. One of the old houses which stand nodding 



80 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

their tottering heads at one another, across the street, is 
probably the Crown Inn, at which Geronnet put up when, 
disguised as a merchant, he returned to open the gates of 
the city to his friends. 

Froissart tells the story in his usual racy manner, and 
those of us who, as children, have listened to the splendid 
chronicle, will best appreciate the old town and its 
associations. 

In one of the fifteen side-chapels of the church, we found 
a tiny black antique statue of the Virgin, which attracted 
my attention, since, as my readers may have gathered by 
this time, I am much interested in such things. 

A woman was dusting the altar, which, in truth, needed 
it badly ! 

" How long has that statue been here ? " I asked, for I 
had never heard of a black Virgin of Ferrand. 

The woman ceased her work. 

" It was brought here," she said, " after the Terror. I 
suppose some one saved it from one of the chapels of 
which so many were destroyed, and, later, gave it to 
this church." 

Poor pathetic little image ! It bore no name ; no one 
even remembered whence it had come. Once, no doubt, it 
had been regarded as a centre of some special and popular 
cult, for the woman added that it was still " good for giving 
children ! " But the days of its glory are over. No votive 
offerings hang to the bracket on which it stands, it has not 
even been given a position over the altar. The tiny form 
before which, during hundreds of years, women came, and 
prayed, and burned candles, to which were offered golden 
hearts and waxen babies innumerable, is now merely 
tolerated, given a shelter in the sanctuary queened over by 
the Virgin of Lourdes. Only the poorest and humblest of 



FERRAND 81 

women come to kneel before the little shrine, yet judging 
by the crowd of dirty and uproarious ragamuffins who 
clamoured at us as we left the church, the forgotten 
Black Virgin of Ferrand is as powerful and efficacious 
as ever ! 



CHAPTER V 

Veyre — Castle of Buron — Modern Witchcraft — Issoire — Besse — 
The Church of Saint Andre — The Black Virgins of the Mont Dore — 
Lac Pavin — Vassivieres — La Montee de Notre Dame de Vassivieres 

IF Madame is interested in Black Virgins, she should 
by all means go to Besse, and assist at La Montee 
de Notre Dame de Vassivieres." So spake the landlord 
of the Hotel de FUnivers, as we sat outside the door after 
dinner, sipping our coffee, and listening to the strains of 
the ubiquitous " Merry Widow," as played by the orchestra 
of the Cafe de Paris. 

It appeared that at one time our host had stayed at 
Mont Dore, which is within a walk (an Auvergnat's 
walk !) of Vassivieres, and had on one occasion witnessed 
the curious ceremonies connected with the summer outing 
of the famous statue of Our Lady, and thereby been 
much impressed. He explained how the "saint" has 
both her summer and winter shrine, so that when the 
autumn storms begin gathering round the summit of the 
Puy de Sancy, the handful of peasants who have been 
feeding their cows over the high pastures of Vassivieres, 
close the " burons " or hovels where they have been 
picnicing during the summer months, and with their 
Bonne Dame at their head, march down in procession 
to the ancient town of Besse, which lies in a valley some 
eight kilometres to the north-east. There, sheltered by 

the old brown fortifications, they and their cattle pass the 

8 2 



NOTRE DAME DE VASSIVIERES 83 

long dark days of winter, watched over by the antique 
statue which has always accompanied the cows in their 
semi-annual migrations. 

And now it was spring, for summer, real summer, rarely 
comes to these mountain regions. The sky was opening, 
the sun had already melted the snows, the pastures were 
once again rich and luscious, and the cows eager to be off. 
But most eager of all would be Notre Dame de Vassivieres. 
For though the great church of Besse, built by the ancient 
lords of La Tour d'Auvergne, and enriched by Catherine 
de Medicis and her daughter Margot, Queen of Navarre, 
is "exceeding magnifical," rivalling in beauty the finest 
churches of Auvergne, the Black Virgin prefers her humble 
mountain home. " And so," concluded the landlord, " if 
she is not taken up in procession on the second of July, 
she starts off, and goes by herself, or so the peasants 
assure one ! " 

" The second of July ! " I exclaimed ; " but that is the 
day after to-morrow. Can one reach Besse in a day?" 

The landlord looked at us regretfully. We were 
occupying his best room. Still he was an Auvergnat, 
and consequently truthful. 

" There is the automobile," said he ; " Monsieur Bastide 
told me this evening that it is in perfect order. The 
roads are excellent, the machine will travel like a 
bird ! " 

We had been loitering round Clermont for days, and 
though the quiet wandering among the hills had been 
infinitely restful, the prospect of the journey was delightful 
and exhilarating. There is an irresponsibility about 
motoring which appeals strongly to certain natures. 
Most of us are gipsies at heart, and the automobile is 
the nearest approach to a gipsy van possible to an 



84 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

English doctor and his wife in this twentieth century. 
No packing, no dresses to change, no letters, no trains to 
catch, no regular meals to provide, no fixed place of 
abode, no thought for the morrow, no regret for the 
past. Picture it, oh Mrs Grundy, parading up and down 
at one of your favourite resorts, and shudder in your 
best bib and tucker, at thought of the dear disreputable 
life ! 

For when "winter is past the rain is over and gone, 
the flowers appear on the earth, and the time of the 
singing of birds is come," others beside Solomon and 
the Black Virgin feel that they must " arise and haste 
away ! " 

" Au revoir, Monsieur-Dame ! Bon voyage ! A la 
bonne rencontre ! " 

We found all the country smiling, as though to wel- 
come us ; even the automobile seemed delighted to be off 
once more. Uphill she sang, downhill she whispered, and 
always the same cheery, busy, even pace. Our way lay 
past Veyre, the Gaulish village, above which, high on the 
Puy de Menton, can be seen the huge statue of the Virgin, 
raised over the " dolmen," or " fairy-stone," around which 
the wedding dances used to be held. 

Presently across the river we saw the great castle of 
Buron, set on a lofty height, misty and dim, like the ages 
which have passed since it lived its life. There stands 
the once mighty feudal fortress, and clustering below, a 
group of poor little cottages, striking parable of the 
survival of the humble. The great castle, where the 
Counts of Auvergne once dwelt, tyrannizing over the 
district, has for ages been a lifeless ruin, while the village, 
which formerly lived on the crumbs which fell from its 



A WITCH 85 

extravagant table, is as alive, and far more prosperous and 
happy, than in the old days of dependence. 

We had just run through Coudes, and were winding 
our way along the picturesque gorge of the Allier, when 
we came upon a survival of the past, such as, I think, 
would not be possible in any province of France, save 
Auvergne. It was a woman ! Her hair hung wild and 
disordered on her filthy bare shoulders ; she wore no hat, 
and scarcely any clothes save a few miserable rags. But 
what was most terrible was, that her wretched condition 
seemed to excite in us no feeling except disgust. As she 
stood there, in the sunlight, she was merely loathsome — 
a sore on the fair surface of the landscape. I cannot 
explain the sensation, perhaps I ought to be ashamed to 
own it. It was like coming face to face with one of 
those hairy prehistoric ancestors of ours, whom we all 
try so hard to forget. She stood in the middle of the 
road, making no attempt to get out of the way, and her 
mouth opened as though she were going to curse us. Then, 
as the car swerved to the right to avoid her, she gave an 
evil laugh, turned her back, and disappeared. 

A few days afterwards I was talking over our journey 
with an Auvergnat friend, and happened to mention this 
wretched creature. 

" She must have been a witch ! " exclaimed she. " There 
are many in Le Centre. Most villages possess one. The 
people have more faith in a woman like that than in a 
regular doctor ; besides, they are less expensive. I expect 
you disturbed her while she was gathering herbs. It is 
fortunate that she did not lay a spell on you ; they do not 
like automobiles," and she laughed uneasily. 

" But you surely do not believe in witches ? " I exclaimed. 

My friend's eyes fell. " I can only tell you what I 



86 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

have heard," said she. " I was brought up among 
the peasants of Correze, and certainly they believe in 
witches." 

She went on to tell me of an old woman who lived near 
the village of her nurse. It appeared that this witch was 
always called in when there was anything wrong with the 
cows. " She used to say something," added my friend, and, 
after a moment's reflection, repeated : " ' Te, te, ante te, et 
super ante te.' When I told my father he said that it 
meant, ' I, the devil, am more ancient than Thou, oh Jesus, 
and more powerful.' You see the witch had her power 
from the devil," she added. 

I asked whether she had ever been treated by one of 
these women. " Yes," said she, " I remember once 
I had a patch of ringworm which worried my nurse a good 
deal. As it would not get well, she took me to the witch, 
who made the sign of the cross over my head, while we 
repeated five ' Paters ' and five ' Aves.' Then she said, 
' Dartre, va-t'en, tu es guerie ! ' " 

" And you lost the ringworm ? " 

" Certainly," replied my friend demurely. " I had the 
faith which they say is necessary for such cures, and my 
nurse had placed a piece of silver over the sore ! " x 

After we lost sight of the sorceress the country seemed 
to smile more and more enchantingly. The granite rocks, 
ruddy and warm, were covered with wild thyme, and 

1 One of the most curious treatments of these witches is that recommended 
for complaints of the eye. It is given in a pamphlet, recently, published locally, 
on the superstitions of Auvergne. 

The witch uses a stone for this cure, a little white stone, and if you ask 
where she got it. she will tell you that she took out the eye of a swallow, just 
as he was about to fly away, and that next year when he reappeared, he 
brought this stone in his empty socket in place of the eye he had lost. She 
lifts the eyelid of the patient, and slips the tiny pebble underneath. When 
she takes it out, the eye is well ! 



ISSOIRE 87 

draped by roses and honeysuckle. On the hillsides were 
patches of bright green vineyard, and on every crest 
perched a little village, so much the colour of the rock that 
one would have passed it unnoticed, save for the tell-tale 
red of its tiled roofs. Now and then we would meet a 
girl, leading her sheep to pasture, her large cotton apron 
turned up, full of the needle-work she was taking with her 
to the fields. 

At Issoire we found a magnificent church, almost a 
facsimile of that of Notre Dame du Port, and, running 
round the frieze outside the apse, the signs of the Zodiac, 
a curious symbol to find on a Christian building. 

Legend says that the name " Issoire " is derived from 
that of the goddess Isis, who had a celebrated shrine on 
the spot where the church now stands, so that probably a 
good deal of pagan symbolism permeated the ritual once 
practised in this building. 

It was to Iciodorum, as it was called in the first centuries, 
that Saint Austremoine, the Apostle of Auvergne, of whom 
I have spoken earlier, came to end his days. He had 
established a school for young priests and nobles, or more 
probably had taken over the goodwill of an already existing 
Druidical establishment. The neighbourhood seems to 
have been largely inhabited by Jews, whom Austremoine, 
in spite of his many years and failing strength, set to work 
to convert. The Jew, however, of the first century was 
as hard to convince of his blindness as his brother of 
to-day, and, for a long time, the old missionary laboured 
in vain. 

At last he made a convert, a young man of good family, 
to whom, at baptism, he gave the name " Lucius," thereby 
signifying that he was the first light in that abode of dark- 
ness. But why tell the story ? Every one at Issoire knows 



88 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

the legend of Lucius' martyrdom. You can see the well 
into which he was cast by his savage father, and the great 
stone at the village of Boulade, where, later, the Jews 
tortured and finally beheaded the good Austremoine. 
The two martyrs were buried together in the enclosure of 
the Christian monastery near by. But the people of 
Iciodorum were unworthy of having the remains of two 
such godly men in their midst. Alive or dead, they never 
appreciated the glorious Austremoine, and neglected his 
shrine in such a disgraceful fashion, that it was finally 
removed by Pepin le Bref to the new church he was 
building at Marsat. It is said that on the day of the trans- 
lation of the relics, the king insisted on carrying the 
" chasse " himself, so great was his devotion to the memory 
of Saint Austremoine. It was perhaps on account of the 
indifference of the people of Issoire to the memory of the 
saint, that later he made no special effort to protect the 
town, and it was devastated in turn by the Germans, the 
Vandals, the Alains, the Burgundians, the Huns, the 
Wisigoths, the Franks, and the Saxons. Indeed, it is 
astonishing that any trace at all is left of the old city of 
Isis. Finally, the remnant was rent asunder during the 
Wars of Religion. Catholics murdered Protestants, Pro- 
testants retaliated on Catholics. The town fell into the 
hands of the archfiend Merle, of whom the Due de Mont- 
pensier said : " With Merle at my side, I would attack 
hell itself, were it full of fifty thousand devils ! " And all 
the time, the great basilica of St Austremoine looked down 
upon the seething mass of suffering humanity, while the 
Catholic priest at the altar, and the Protestant monk in 
the pulpit, hurled abuse at one another. " Allez ! Allez ! 
sale Jacobin ! " yelled the priest. " Ohe, Papiste, Papiste ! 
Ohe, cafard ! " screamed the Lutheran. Then at last came 



ISSOIRE 89 

the Due d'Alencon, and swept them all away, raising over 
the ruins a great monument, with the words, " Icy fust 
Issoire." Yet to-day the town survives. 

We lunched in company with several commercial 
travellers, all intent upon their own concerns and the 
quality of the food served out to them. Opposite to me 
sat a farmer, a true Auvergnat, with the round head of his 
far-away Mongolian ancestors, and a pair of twinking grey 
eyes, which gave a curious contradiction to his grave face, 
with its solemn mouth and brown side-whiskers. He wore 
a dark blue smock, open at the neck, showing a white 
pleated shirt front, and a large red necktie, fastened in a 
bow ; in fact, he was quite a dandy. Like ourselves, he 
seemed to have little in common with the men of commerce, 
and presently we fell into conversation. I asked him if he 
knew Besse. Why, to be sure he did. Was it not his 
native town ? And his eyes sparkled when I told him that 
we were on our way thither to take part in the festival to 
be held the next morning. 

" Ah ! " he exclaimed, " how I wish I were going to be 
there, if only to show the gentlefolk some little hospitality ! " 
and he sighed regretfully. " However," he continued, 
" Monsieur le Doyen will be in his rectory behind the 
church. He is always pleased to see strangers ; he will 
tell you the history of everything. But, Madame, 
do not fail to go and see the Lac Pavin, lying at the 
bottom of its crater. People speak to me of the Lakes of 
Lucerne and Geneva ! Bah ! why should one travel to 
foreign lands when one has such wonders at one's very 
door ? " 

During the greater part of the afternoon we had the 
company of the river Couze, which rises in the mysterious 



90 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

crater lake of which the farmer spoke. But the Couze of 
the valley is a very different stream from the Couze of the 
mountain ; flowing gently along through meadow-land and 
woods, washing the base of towering rocks, upon which 
are perched ruined castles, beautiful Montagut-le-Blanc, or 
little Saint-Dierez, where the roses and honeysuckle climb 
round the old armorial lions upon the gate-posts. Once 
we crossed the river to visit the Grottes de Jonas, that 
extraordinary deserted monastery cut in the face of the 
cliff. 

At last, still following the banks of the stream, we 
arrived at the quaint old-fashioned little town of Besse, 
hiding prudishly behind its grim forbidding walls, as in 
the days when the bold lords of La Tour d'Auvergne used 
to visit it, to make their Easter Communion in the great 
Romanesque church of Saint Andre. 

The good Rector was entertaining some of his brother 
priests in his pretty parsonage. On hearing that we were 
English, he called his old gardener and told him to show 
us round the church, and in particular to point out the 
curious sculptures and give us their signification. 

" I regret exceedingly not being able to show Madame 
this civility," he concluded, " but," and he waved his hand 
toward the door of the study, where I could hear the sound 
of loud jolly voices raised in argument, " you see how it is. 
Some of my brother rectors have come to assist at La 
Montee." 

" The town is so quiet," said I, " that we almost doubted 
whether the procession was really to be held." 

" Yes," rejoined the old priest rather sadly, " we have still 
a precarious liberty to pursue these ancient customs ; but 
how long it will be permitted us to do so, who can say ! " 

" Is the pilgrimage as popular as ever ? " 



BESSE 91 

He shook his head. "You will see," he said, "if you 
assist at La Montee. Les Reinages de Notre Dame were 
put up to auction last Sunday according to the ancient 
custom. There were barely twelve bidders ! Yet it is not 
so long ago when there would be fifty porters, and seventy 
or eighty queens. Ah, what a procession it made, as it 
wound its way up the mountain ! " x 

" It is sad to see an old custom die, after so many 
centuries," said I sympathetically. 

" Yes," said the priest, " it is sad. All changes are sad. 
But we must not despair. The good Mother herself knows 
how difficult it is to maintain these religious practices. 
And after all it may be Her will that they should dwindle 
and cease. We must remember that they are merely props 
to sustain and encourage our faith. Perhaps the time has 
come when we are called to stand without them." 

Here the old gardener appearing, the Rector gave us 
over into his charge, and returned to the clerical party in 
the study. 

We found the Black Virgin standing above the high 
altar, ready robed for the morrow; but as the light was 
fading, we postponed the further consideration of the statue, 
and turned to examine the sculptures. After pointing out 
the Judgment of the Drunkard, whose soul is being dragged 
off by three devils, while the body lies dead upon a bed, 
and a curious monster, half horse, half man, with the name 
" Minorta " carved upon it, we turned to the last. 

" This," said the old man, " represents the return of the 
son of Tobit, accompanied by the Archangel Michael. 
Observe the dog, how happy he is to be at home once 
more ! " 

1 At these processions, there was formerly a "king" and "queen,"' the 
right to these titles being put up to auction. 



92 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

I made some rejoinder, but my attention was taken up 
by a curious-looking object like a bird carved on a pillar. 
I asked what it was. 

" Perhaps it is the sparrow which blinded Tobit ! " 
suggested the man, smiling. 

" Or it might be a bat." I said. And went on to tell 
him of the woman of Saint-Amand and her fear of the 
bat : " Fermez les yeux, Madame ! " she had cried, " fermez 
les yeux ! He will very likely faire tomber quelque chose, 
and that will blind you." 

" Ah," said the man, " but it was a sparrow that blinded 
Tobit, though, to be sure, how could he have been certain, 
since he was asleep at the time." 

" These superstitions prevail here also ? " I asked. 

" But certainly ! Indeed they can scarcely be reckoned 
as superstitions. Every one in Auvergne knows that the bat 
brings misfortune. I myself remember an instance of it. I 
was a boy at the time, working on a farm near Champs. 
One evening in the month of September, we were all seated 
at supper in the great kitchen, when a bat flew in, and after 
going into all the corners as though in search of something, 
suddenly turned and disappeared through the door, which 
had remained wide open. I remember Jose the shepherd 
turned the colour of skimmed milk. 

" ' You saw that Ratapenade ? ' he exclaimed, turning to 
me ; ' she came for one of us ! Someone is going to die in 
this house,' and he signed himself. 

"'Quelles sornettes!' cried the farmer. 'Why, it was 
only a bat ! Do not listen to him, boy ; he will make you 
as superstitious as he is himself!' You see the farmer 
came from Touraine, where they believe nothing save what 
they read in the journals ! 

" ' Eh bien ! ' I heard Jose mutter, ' we shall see if the old 



NOTRE DAME DE VASSIVIERES 93 

ones are not right ! ' and he added, turning to me, ' these 
beasts smell death in the air ! They are terrible ! They are 
a little bit of the devil himself, look you ! ' 

" I was used to old Jose's tales, however, and went to bed 
quite comfortably. But next day a frightful thing happened. 
The farmer, a strong healthy man of fifty, who had never 
had a day's illness in his life, fell down dead in the harvest 
field. His last word was to tell Jose to be sure and not 
sell the calf for less than fifteen pistoles." 

" A strange story ! " said I. " But, after all, no doubt a 
mere coincidence." 

The man shook his head. " Ah, that is what Monsieur 
le Cure says," said he. " But for myself I never care 
to see a bat unless I am in the company of some one I 
dislike." 

After he had finished his round of the sculptures, the 
gardener departed, and we went to look at the famous little 
statue. Several women were praying, and one old crone 
who had finished telling her beads, rose at our approach, 
and we stood together looking up at the Saint. 

" Can you tell me," I asked, " why La Sainte Vierge 
is black ? " The old woman looked at me with her large, 
brown, dreamy eyes, eyes which had seen so much more 
of heaven than of earth during the seventy years she had 
passed among the mountains. 

" But does Madam then not know that La Bonne Dame 
was a negress ? " she asked in surprise. 

" A negress ? " I exclaimed, " how very curious/' for I 
had never heard this explanation of the Black Virgins of 
Auvergne. 

"Our fathers assure us," continued the woman, "that 
the Blessed Saints of the Mont Dore, Our Ladies of 
Vassivieres, La Font Sainte, La Tour, and Eglise 



94 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

Neuve, were four black sisters of whom Notre Dame de 
Vassivieres was the eldest. They came from the East, 
and took up their abode among the peasants of these 
parts." 

"But how did they find their way to Mont Dore?" I 
asked, wondering whether I had stumbled upon some old 
legend connected with the settlement of the early races 
in Auvergne. 

The old lady shook her head. 

" Madame, I cannot tell," she said. " It is a very high 
mountain, the Mont Dore ; perhaps they saw it from the 
East. I only know what I have been told by my grand- 
mother, who had it from her grandmother, that the Four 
Blessed Sisters, finding life hard for the people of these 
mountains, as indeed it is ! dwelt among them and taught 
them religion. Voila tout ! " and crossing herself she 
turned away as though the matter were quite settled. 

Next morning the ringing of bells awoke us early, and 
going over to the church, we found it full of peasants, 
assisting at Mass, which was being said by the Dean. I 
do not know whether it was imagination, but there seemed 
a cloud of melancholy overshadowing the old building, 
and when at eight o'clock the little statue, gorgeously 
robed, was placed in the gilt and glass palanquin, and borne 
forth down the steps, past the house of Queen Margaret 
of Navarre, and so out through the old fortified gateway 
into the open country, the black-robed procession of men 
and women following, singing their minor chant, looked 
as though they were attending a funeral. 

It is about eight miles from Besse to the mountain 
chapel of Vassivieres, where the Black Virgin spends the 
three months of summer. The statue is carried all the 
way by relays of bearers ; and the choristers, school 



LAC PAVIN 95 

children, and congregation follow on foot. But the clergy, 
with the exception of one harassed-looking young curate, 
pack themselves into carts and wagonettes, and for me . . . 
my husband and the car were waiting just beyond the bend 
of the road. So while the great procession was getting 
under way, we had time to visit the strange haunted Lac 
Pavin. We found it as our friend the farmer at Issoire 
had said, lying at the bottom of a yawning crater, the 
limpid water filling half the cup, while the upper part was 
covered with trees and grass, forming a perpendicular 
circular wall of verdure about a hundred and fifty feet in 
height. The lake is said to have no bottom ; the waters 
reaching right down to the centre of the earth. No fish 
live in it, and if you throw stones into the water, the sky 
will darken, the hail beat down, the still waters of the 
lake will rise in angry waves, and the whole basin be filled 
with a ghastly howling tempest. As to venturing in a 
boat upon the magical lake, there is not a peasant for 
miles around who would dare the feat. For no sooner 
would he have left the bank, than Lac Pavin would become 
a racing giddy whirlpool, and the daring boatman would 
be sucked down into the yawning gulf, to feed those 
fires which are ever burning at the bottom of the crater. 
It is dangerous even to fire off a gun there, for horrible 
fumes and poisonous exhalations arise at the sound ! The 
water too is injurious even to the touch, much more if 
tasted ! For myself I must acknowledge that I experienced 
none of these horrors. It was a grey morning, and the 
lake lay at the bottom of its leafy cup, like a pool of 
molten lead. Trembling, I threw in a stone. It fell with 
a heavy PLOP ! But though the ripples spread and spread 
till the surface was like moire silk, they died away, leaving 
the lake as still and brooding as before. Having no gun 



96 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

with us, we clapped our hands, and shouted till we were 
hoarse, but the mocking voices which answered us were 
only echoes of our own. After that, I ventured to bathe 
my face in the water, and even to taste it, but still nothing 
happened, so with something of a feeling of disappoint- 
ment we turned, and climbed our way out of the crater, 
back to the road where we had left the car. 

Vassivieres is one of those districts it would be almost 
impossible for the tourist to reach, save for the invention 
of the automobile, and as we paused at the culminating 
point of the road and gazed around us, a feeling of gratitude 
arose in our hearts for whoever it was who first thought of 
the contrivance. 

It was, as I have said, the second of July, but the air 
was brisk and invigorating with a sense of the mountains. 
On either side the road lay a billowy ocean of grey-green 
pasture, stained here and there by patches of gold, crimson, 
and blue, while in the distance rose the bare grey heads of 
the giants, who sit guarding the summer sanctuary of the 
mysterious little image, whose festival we were about to 
attend. In all the broad landscape not a tree, not a bush, 
only miles upon miles of undulating breezy plateau, roofed 
by a strange brooding grey sky. A little farther we came 
upon a low-browed shanty, skulking behind a hillock, 
where, leaving the car, we turned from the main road, and 
began climbing the pilgrim track which leads to the Chapel 
of La Bonne Dame de Vassivieres. 

Round the ancient stones which pave it the grass had 
crept, for the path is little used during the nine months 
when the statue is at Besse. The rocks on either side 
are covered with flowers, purple pansies, white orchis, 
golden shepherd's purse, sweet wild thyme, and all the 
rosy little mountain plants which gather in clans wherever 



VASSIVIERES 97 

the lichens have prepared a footing for them. It was as 
though the way had been decorated for the passing of a 
bride, only no human hand could have arranged it so 
daintily. As we mounted higher, the hills began to smile 
out through the clouds, the way grew steeper, so that more 
than once we had to rest beside one of the old crosses, which 
have been set up by the different parishes of the Mont Dore. 
Over the swelling plateau we could see the road, running 
like a grey thread, and approaching it from every direction 
scattered groups of black-gowned peasants, coming from 
distant villages and lonely farms, to take part in the great 
festival of La Montee. The procession itself is not yet in 
sight, so rising we go onward, till a jangling of bells above 
tells us that we are nearing the place OF COWS, 1 and 
raising our eyes we see against the skyline the wild solitary 
figure of the herd, watching to give the first signal of the 
COMING. High over all are the mountains, still veiled in 
cloud, mysteriously; though, strangely enough, above the 
chapel itself, the grey has opened, leaving a canopy of 
blue, the Virgin's own colour ! For the path has grown 
less steep, the old stone Stations with which it is bordered 
have ceased, we are crossing the lip of the plateau of 
Vassivieres. 

How I wish I could picture it to you ! Neither the vil- 
lage, the fountain, nor the chapel can have changed at all, 
since the days when Catherine de Medicis and her daughter 
Margot, Queen of Navarre, came hither to drink the waters 
and visit the Black Virgin. As we enter the great green 
lap of the Puy de Sancy, the giant mountain gazes down 
upon us, his vast shoulders blocking the view to the north, 
his arms stretched out protectingly on either side. There 

1 Vassivieres is also spelt Vaccivieres, and is said by some to be derived from 
vacca, a cow. 

7 



98 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

is the stone cross, planted, as Jacques Branche, the Prior of 
Pebrac, says, speaking in the beginning of the seventeenth 
century, " de temps immemorial," and there, on the site of 
a far older worshipping place, stands the "grande eglise 
a trois autels," built in 1555, by the clergy and inhabitants 
of Besse. 

Grey it is, battered with age and weather. There is no 
enclosure ; the pastures reach to the very walls, the stone 
cabins of men and beasts crowding round as though for 
protection, the cows feeding peacefully beside the ever-open 
door, sniffing now and again, and raising their soft eyes to 
see whether their patron saint has yet returned, to bless 
them with her presence. 

But first let us visit the fountain, for there we shall find 
the earliest object of the cult practised at Vassivieres. 
Long before the Black Virgin took it under her protection, 
Water, symbol of Purity and Healing, was here held 
sacred and adored. There is no doubt that the ritual 
which centres round this spring, dates back to a time much 
anterior to the days when Saint Marcial and Saint Florus 
came preaching Christianity to Auvergne. 1 

As we look around and remember how most of the rivers 
of this region take their rise among the mountains by which 
we are surrounded, we shall realize how natural it was that 
the early Celtic settlers, who had such a reverence for 
springs of water, should have regarded this fountain with 
peculiar veneration. To them it seemed the Mother of 
those streams upon which the life of the district depended, 
and so here the priests of the tribe established a water cult, 
which developed, as such cults are wont to do, into the 
worship of ideal purity. 

1 Another and more probable derivation of the name Vassivieres, is from 
two Celtic words, Vas Iver, meaning Temple of Water. 




THE FOUNTAIN OF VASSIVIERES 



ioo AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

La Tour d'Auvergne. But they reckoned without their 
host (or hostess). 

No lady, be she saint or goddess, young or old, white or 
black, allows herself to be disposed of in so arbitrary a 
manner ! The morning after the translation, the mysterious 
black image had vanished, and as the priests stood amazed, 
looking at the empty pedestal, a poor woman who had 
brought her cow down to market, reported that La 
Bonne Dame was back in her own place above the sacred 
fountain. 

Again and again was she fetched, each time with greater 
honours and more imposing ceremonial, but no amount of 
satin robes or gold embroideries could reconcile the Black 
Virgin to her new abode. Novel fashions in dress had no 
attraction for her ! She loved her mountain pasture, the 
scent of her flowers, the song of the birds and insects, the 
sweet breath of the cows, the whisper of the ever-flowing 
fountain. In short she was a true Celtic goddess. The 
people of Besse were in despair. The more the Saint 
refused to stay with them, the more they coveted her. At 
last an idea occurred to the Rector. His parishioners must 
all club together and found a Mass, to be said at the High 
Altar every Wednesday for ever, promising at the same 
time, that if the Black Virgin would but consent to spend 
the winter at Besse, she should pass the summer months 
beside her beloved fountain at Vassivieres, And so a 
compromise was effected, and it became a custom for the 
people of Besse to carry the sacred image up to the moun- 
tain on the second of July, the festival of the Visitation, and 
to bring it down again at the end of September, on the 
Sunday next after Saint Matthew's Day. 

Such was the sacristan's account of the origin of La 
Mont£e, though I believe myself that the custom dates back 



LA MONTEE 101 

to far far older times. As I entered the chapel I was struck 
by the air of expectation which pervaded it. Perhaps it 
was due to that empty niche above the altar, to which all 
faces were turned so eagerly. Below hovered two golden 
angels with outspread wings, while high over the canopy 
shone the emblem of the crescent moon, the horns pointing 
upward. 

All was hushed commotion, eager suspense. Candles 
were being lit, confessions heard, here and there groups of 
ancient women, in the marvellous bonnets of Auvergne, 
sat with silently moving lips telling their beads. 

Presently four of them rose as by one consent, and left 
the chapel, and I with them. As we crossed the threshold 
the eldest woman began murmuring a litany, the others 
answering in their thin quavering trebles : — 

" Notre Dame de Vassivieres, who makest the blind to see, 

Priez pour nous ! 
Notre Dame de Vassivieres, who makest the paralytic to walk, 

Priez pour nous ! 

Poor sinners that we are, turn us from our evil ways, 

We beseech thee, oh Notre Dame de Vassivieres ! " 

As we reached the third calvary they stopped, and I saw 
them fall upon their knees ; — 

" O God, who bringest lifegiving water from the barren 
rock, pour forth in our lives a devotion to this stainless 
Virgin, which may ever flow as a source of living water, 
abundant, fertilizing ! " 

I looked down the hill-side. Along the distant stretch 
of road, a sinuous black line was making its way. The 
Lady of Vassivieres was in sight. I could hear the chanting ; 
the sound was carried up together with the scent of the 
wild thyme. Then a lark began singing, and another, and 



102 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

another, till the air was full of song. And still the chant 
came nearer. A group of calves who had been gambolling 
together, suddenly raised their heads and listened, snuffing 
the air ; and the wind freshened, breaking up the clouds, 
while the patch of blue sky spread and spread, till, just as 
the procession entered the bounds of Vassivieres, the sun 
shone out in all his glory. 

Surely I was looking on at some pagan festival ! Who 
is this Black Virgin with the horned moon of Astarte, who 
holds her court among the cows ? How did she find her 
way to this remote village of Auvergne ? 

I watched her with her attendant priests, and men, each 
bearing a rod, wound round with strips of coloured paper, 
so reminiscent of the ancient " thyrsus." I followed, as 
she made her tour of the fountain ; saw her enter the 
chapel ; stood by, while she was robed in her Vassivieres 
garments, and placed on the pedestal above the altar. 

I suppose in ancient times sacrifices would have followed 
— sacrifices, perhaps of slaves, certainly of cows and calves. 
But Christianity has done away with such scenes, and the 
sacrifice which followed was that of the Mass, very solemn, 
very simple, and in that ancient sanctuary very suggestive. 

As I made my way out, I glanced up at the little black 
form above the altar, and wondered from what wood the 
image was fashioned. Was it the sacred tree of some still 
earlier cult, used in order to incorporate the ancient religion 
with its successor ? Who can say ? Succeeding religions 
have merged so imperceptibly into one another, that their 
history, even when recorded, is difficult to trace, and at 
Vassivieres there are no records before the thirteenth 
century. 

But there are legends, beliefs, superstitions, a cult too 
deeply seated to have had its origin only two thousand 




C^j 




LA MONTEE 103 

years ago. And above all there is a strange elemental 
atmosphere, taking one back in fancy to the days when 
the first Celts came wandering from the East, bringing 
perhaps some such image, or the sacred pillar from which 
was hewn the first Black Virgin of the Puy de Sancy. 



CHAPTER VI 

La Tour d'Auvergne — Saint-Pardoux— Notre Dame de Natzy — Bort 
— The Burial of Carmankan — The Castle of Madic — The Story of 
Yolande— The Virgin of Champagnac — The Gorge of the Dordogne — 
The Castle of Ventadour — The Story of Geoffrey Tete Noir 

SOME twenty miles to the west of Vassivieres, may still 
be seen the scanty ruins of the castle of La Tour 
d'Auvergne, birthplace of the noble family of that name, 
once so notorious in French history. The keep, the 
nucleus of the castle, rises from a crag of black basalt, 
from which it would be indistinguishable, save for a certain 
staircase leading down into the forgotten rooms, which 
must still lie below. The remainder of the castle has 
disappeared, and the village, which once crouched humbly 
at foot of the mound, has ventured nearer and nearer, 
till to-day it reaches right up to the sides of the lofty 
crag, which, crowned by its ruin, still dominates the 
landscape. 

Every one has heard of the family of La Tour 
d'Auvergne. As Chabrol says : " This illustrious house 
is allied to all the first families of Europe." If we trace it 
back through the long line of Bertrands, Bernards, and 
Girauds, as the eldest sons were named, we shall arrive, in 
the year 937, at Bernard de La Tour and his wife Berthilde, 
who " gave much wealth to the church of Brioude," in 
payment, no doubt, for the many sins they had committed 
in their youth ! For, like certain other noble houses of 

which we read, the original Lords de La Tour began their 
104. 



LA TOUR D'AUVERGNE 105 

family career as a set of aristocratic brigands. By the 
fourteenth century, however, they were in high favour 
at court, and we hear of a Seigneur de La Tour being 
at the Battle of Poitiers, and dying in defence of his 
king. 

Catherine de Medicis inherited La Tour through her 
mother Madeline, Lady of Auvergne, who married Laurent 
de Medicis, nephew of Pope Leo the Tenth. And so we 
come to the days when it passed into the hands of Margot, 
Queen of Navarre, as she is still called by the peasants, 
and she bequeathed it to Louis XIII., the son of her rival, 
thus uniting Auvergne to France. 

It was about two o'clock when we entered the little 
place, and drew up in the shadow of the ancient keep. 
As we did so, an old woman accosted us, asking whether 
we would like to see the castle, and, on our replying in 
the affirmative, led us by a narrow path to the top of the 
ivy-covered heap of ruins. What a strange place ! Here, 
where soldiers once fought and died, hay was lying, 
chickens feeding, for the old woman had constituted her- 
self the guardian, and lived in a little shanty she had 
put up on the fiat top of the keep. 

" For eight hundred years my ancestors have lived in 
this village," said she, looking proudly round ; " as long 
as the Family existed we served them, and, now that 
they are dead, I love to show the castle and talk of 
them, for I too, look you, am a little of the race of La 
Tour," 

On hearing that we had come from Vassivieres, she 
inquired eagerly, if we had noticed the escutcheon of the 
Family in the vaulting of the chapel roof, and told me how 
she had walked the whole distance two years before, on 
purpose to see it. 



106 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

" And would you believe it," she concluded, " Monsieur 
le Cure knew nothing whatever of the matter. But 
there, how should he, is he one of the Family ? 
' Monsieur, s'il vous plait, ou sont les armes des Seigneurs 
de La Tour d'Auvergne?' said I. 'Pas ici, ma bonne 
femme, vous vous trompez. II ne restent pas des armes 
de ces messieurs-la. Tout a ete detruit par les Anglais.' 
The English, indeed, as though they would dare to destroy 
the arms of La Tour." 

" Pardon, Monsieur le Cure, c'est vous qui vous 
trompez. Voila ! " With a superb gesture, she waved 
her hand upward to an imaginary roof. " Behold the 
arms, Madame ! A tower, this tower on which we 
stand ! " stamping her foot, " and five fleurs-de-lys ! " with 
a slap of the hand for each, by way of emphasis. " And 
below, the motto, Madame knows it doubtless: 'Dieu 
et Mon Tour.' Ah," she concluded, furtively brushing 
away a tear, " and to think that they are all gone but me, 
their humble servant, old Madame d'Arfeuille ! " 

" D' Arfeuille ? " I echoed. 

" Yes, Madame," said she, drawing herself up to her 
full height, " my name is noble, but it is all I have, save 
memories. However, my sorrows are for myself. For the 
world I dance." And suiting the action to the word, she 
began dancing. It was the strangest feeling, to be sitting 
there on the top of the ancient keep, where the ancestors 
of Catherine de Medicis lived, watching the capers of this 
weird old creature. It might well have been the original 
war-dance of the early Celts, the first settlers in Auvergne, 
so wild it was, so passionate, and free from all restraint. 
As I watched Madame d'Arfeuille, with her bright eyes 
and quick gestures, my thoughts flew back through the 
centuries, to the days when, on the rock below, her 



LA TOUR D'AUVERGNE 107 

ancestors had leapt and gesticulated to the same rhythm. 
There were the same expressive movements, the same 
wild cries, the same snapping of the fingers, the same 
rhythmical stamping of the foot, as though she were 
trampling upon some fallen foe. There was even the little 
cup caught up, symbolical of the skull from which, in old 
times, the fathers of her race had drunk the warm blood of 
the conquered enemy. Then the dance ended, and I 
found myself on the old tower, with the old woman, who, 
as she says, is probably a "little of the family," and 
loves to talk of the old race she represents. 

As we had not lunched, she condescended to cook us an 
omelette, a mighty omelette, such as one of her far-away 
grandmothers no doubt cooked for the brigand chief who 
dwelt in the tower below. And, while she beat up the 
nineteen eggs which formed it, she told us her story. 
Her son had turned her out of doors. " Go pray to the 
Virgin to help you ! " he had said, " and if she does not 
hear, pray to the Devil ! " 

" But I had no need, Madame," she concluded ; " the old 
castle of my ancestors opened its door to me, and here I 
live, half in the past, half in the present, telling stories of 
my Family, and cooking omelettes for travellers." 

She certainly had a most wonderful collection of 
ancedotes, most of which I have unfortunately forgotten. 
The following, however, I remember : it was her account 
of the final destruction of the castle. 

" In ancient times," thus she always began, " there were 
two lords of La Tour, brothers. The eldest inhabited 
this castle, and wishing to be rid of the younger, who was 
but a child, he gave him to a servant, saying : ' Take him 
to the forest of Corbe, la-bas ! and there kill him, and be 
sure to bring me his tongue as a proof.' There is a secret 



108 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

passage to the forest, through which they went. But 
having arrived there, the servant spared the boy, and 
killing a dog, brought its tongue, which his lord had cooked 
for supper." 

" I have heard that story before," said I. " It is quite a 
common one." 

" No doubt," replied the woman tranquilly, " it was 
always so done in the ancient times." She went on to 
relate that the child was adopted by some gipsies, and 
grew up to be a celebrated captain, who, not knowing his 
real name, took that of Maurevers, and served " A Lord 
Cardinal called Richelieu." 

" One day," she continued, " Maurevers and his brother 
happened to meet at the inn at Saint-Pardoux, and as 
there was only one fowl for supper, the captain suggested 
that they should fight for it. But the Seigneur de La 
Tour was afraid, and shut himself up in his tower," with 
the usual stamp of the foot which accompanied any 
mention of the keep, " and Maurevers waited on the hill 
yonder where you see the statue of Our Lady. At last 
a prisoner who had suffered much at the hands of La 
Tour, sent word to the Captain that most of the castle 
was really built on sand, and that he must dig beneath 
it. So it fell, and the cruel Seigneur was carried to 
Riom and executed, and as Maurevers did not know 
that he himself was heir to the castle, he destroyed it, 
and later, when he found out, they say it almost broke 
his heart." 

At foot of the hill is a tiny chapel with a Black Virgin, 
which was discovered by a bull digging in the earth with 
its hoof. Children with weak legs are taken to visit the 
statue, in the hope, I suppose, of their gaining some of the 
strength of the ox. But the real Virgin of La Tour, the 



SAINT-PARDOUX 109 

second of the Four Black Sisters of the Mont Dore, is 
Notre Dame de Natzy. 

We had already finished the last morsel of the famous 
omelette, when Madame d'Arfeuille asked if we had 
seen the Saint, and upon our saying no, volunteered to 
take us. 

" Have you ever been in an automobile ? " I asked. 

" No," said she, frowning distrustfully at the car, " but I 
will go " ; and while we were making ready to start I saw 
her going from house to house, and overheard her making 
arrangements as to what was to happen in case of her 
death ! Then, with the same air of grim resolve as her 
great " ancestor " must have worn at the Battle of Poitiers, 
she mounted into her place, and we set off down the 
steep hill. 

" Let him go faster ! Let him go faster ! " she cried, and 
all the time her face was set and stern, the very model of 
a La Tour going to meet death. I believe she was half 
disappointed when we reached the church safely ; it would 
have been a glorious fate for the last of her race ! They 
would never have done talking about it at La Tour. 

We found Saint-Pardoux, where the Virgin resides, a 
charming little village, with an old inn where, according 
to our guide, when the castle of La Tour was full the 
chatelaine hired rooms for supernumerary visitors ! 

There is an old convent too, once the home of some 
great noble. The nuns came out to be photographed, and 
loaded me with flowers from the ancient walled garden. 
What a place it would be to go and dream away a month ! 
Every rose is full of some forgotten love story, and the 
scent of the lilies carries one's thought back to long- 
vanished daughters of the ancient race, who used to come 
and pray to the Good Mother of Natzy to send them as 



no AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

gentle husbands as was compatible with those war- 
like days. 

After Madame d'Arfeuille had told the Sisters of her 
amazing experience, we passed to the church, on the 
threshold of which she stopped me. 

" Make three wishes," said she ; " it is always good to do 
so on entering a new church." 

My husband was taken to the Roman benitier, a perfect 
wonder of grotesque sculpture, and bade to dip his finger, 
wish, and cross himself three times. " Ah ! " she cried, 
" Quel malheur ! The left hand. It might have brought 
you a handsome wife if you had used the right ! " and 
she gave a wicked look at me. " The water of Natzy is 
miraculous," she continued. "On Palm Sunday people 
come for miles to fetch it, and keep it through the 
year." 

" For the sick ? " I inquired. 

" For that also. But it is specially useful in case of 
storms. When the sky grows black and we hear the 
thunder growling, we take the water and sprinkle the 
house with it. It has never been known to fail." 

" That is very useful in a mountain country like this," 
I said. 

" Dame, oui ! " exclaimed the old woman. " Why, a farmer 
near here built a new house not long ago, and up the 
chimney, if you ever heard of such madness, he put an iron 
rod, a thing never seen before in La Tour ! You will have 
your house struck, I told him ; but he only laughed. 
These men think they know everything. However, his 
wife was wiser, for she sprinkled the house and the rod 
with Natzy water. It was as well she did so, for about 
a month after, there was a most terrible storm ; you would 
have said that Saint Michael and the Devil were at their 



NOTRE DAME DE NATZY in 

old tricks up above. Many houses were struck, for it is 
not every one in these days who believes in the water ! But 
the new house was not touched. I myself saw the lightning 
strike the rod, but directly it felt the water, wouf\ down 
it flashed into the ground, and almost immediately the 
clouds fled away to the east." 

We found the dusky little statue enthroned in the north 
chapel, shut in by a grill through which pilgrims were 
evidently accustomed to make their offerings, for the ground 
was scattered with sous. I expressed some wonder that 
they were not stolen, but Madame explained that each 
sou represented a complaint, which would inevitably attach 
itself to any thief. From the legends our guide recounted, 
it is evident that this impersonation of the Blessed Virgin 
has inherited the characteristics of some goddess of thun- 
der and fire, who was probably once worshipped on this 
spot, and I even wondered whether the blackness of some 
of these statues originated in their having been called 
upon to pass through the fire at the time of their 
annual festival. At the feet of Notre Dame de Natzy 
candles are blessed and kept to be lighted in time of 
storm or illness. 

On the way back Madame d'Arfeuille was less silent 
than she had been on the outward journey, and told me 
of that great La Tour, First Grenadier of France, who 
died so gallantly at Neuburg in 1800. 

" And even to-day, when the roll is called," she con- 
cluded, "his name is still read out: ' Theophile Malo 
DE La TOUR D'Auvergne,' they cry ; and a voice answers, 
'Dead on the Field of Battle.' It is glorious to be 
so remembered ! " 

" I wonder what he would think of the automobile ? " I 
remarked. 



ii2 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

Her eyes sparkled. " Ah," said she, " if they could 
but see me, my ancestors." 

After depositing the old lady at La Tour, where she had 
quite a reception, we drove on to Bort, a magnificent ride, 
the mountains on our left shadowed by moving clouds, 
and all the foreground one rich flowery pasture, now blue, 
now pink, now yellow, now purple, as the tribes of flowers 
succeeded one another. Here and there rocks would crop 
up, or little bouquets of feathery pine woods. And so down 
into the valley of the Dordogne, which we entered as the 
shades were darkening to night. 

How many people know the little Limousine town, lying 
at the foot of those mighty basalt cliffs, named by a happy 
inspiration Les Orgues de Bort? It has been called the 
gateway to High Auvergne, and indeed it forms one of 
the finest centres from which to visit this part of the 
country. In itself it is a quaint little place, self-centred, 
self-reliant, self-important. There is a market once a week 
where you will see costumes, and hear stories, such as you 
had ceased to believe in before you were short-coated ! 
Through the centre of the town rushes the Dordogne, so 
lately set free from the restraints of its nursery in the 
gorge above, that it can scarcely be regarded as a 
grown-up river, and curvets about in an adorable and 
perfectly useless fashion, for many a mile farther down 
the valley. 

There is a curious ceremony which takes place at Bort 
at the commencement of Lent, which probably dates back 
to very early times, and is connected either with that 
custom spoken of by Dr Frazer in his " Golden Bough," 1 
known as Burning the Old Woman, or with some sacrifice 
once offered to the god of the river. It is known that 

1 Vol. iii. p. 244. 



BURIAL OF CARMANKAN 113 

when the Celtic Aryans traversed Europe with their flocks 
and herds, one of the greatest difficulties they had to en- 
counter was that of crossing the rivers. In the days when 
they still had to be forded, the River God claimed a most 
exorbitant toll of both human and animal life. So at last 
when bridges were invented, it only seemed fair to the 
Celtic mind that sacrifices should be offered to the defrauded 
deity. And as the old people would have been the most 
likely to perish in fording the stream, it was they, with 
grim justice, who were selected as victims. As long as 
there have been bridges anywhere in Central France, there 
has been one at Bort, but whether the ceremonial which 
takes place on Ash Wednesday, has any connexion with 
the matter or not I leave to be determined by wiser heads 
than mine. 

I am fortunate enough to have a friend at Bort, and it is 
to her that I owe the following account of the " Burial of 
Carmankan." " On Ash Wednesday about nine o'clock in 
the evening, a melancholy procession may be seen going 
through the narrow streets of Bort. On a hurdle is the 
straw effigy of a man, carried by boys dressed in white 
to resemble priests, while before and after come others 
bearing torches. In the red shifting light they move 
slowly along, singing a weird dirge-like chant, which 
recalls the De Profundis. So strange is the sight, that 
it is not at all unusual to see those who are unaccustomed 
to the ways of Bort, cross themselves fearfully. But if 
you listen, and above all if you understand the Limousine 
patois, you will not find it so terrifying. 

" ' Farewell, poor Carmankan,' they sing, ' you must go ; I 
remain ! Farewell, farewell, farewell ! ' 

" From all corners of the town, men, women, and children 
gather to pay their last respects to Carmankan. So by 
8 



ii4 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

the time the procession arrives on the bridge it is quite a 
formidable gathering. Then the oldest man takes a torch 
and sets fire to the effigy. Instantly others fall upon it 
and cast it into the Dordogne, while the crowd takes up 
the refrain : ' Farewell, poor Carmankan, farewell ! ' For a 
few moments the flaming straw may be seen floating 
down the stream, leaving a sparkling wake behind ; then 
it dies away, and the water, having nothing more to devour, 
resumes its ordinary appearance, while the Bortois, having 
accomplished their pagan rite, go home with a feeling of 
religious satisfaction." 

The morning after our arrival at Bort, we started off 
with this friend of ours, to pay a visit to the Castle of 
Madic. The road runs along the valley, shaded by chest- 
nut trees and beeches, and in the rocky bed at its side 
rushes the turbulent young river. According to legend 
the Castle of Madic was built by Richard Cceur de Lion. 
Here they say he lived, and loved a fair maid of the 
district, who fell a victim to his martial charms, and it 
was from them that the Dukes of Madic were descended. 
We found the village priest in the Place as we drew up, 
and as he and my friend were old acquaintances, he went 
with us up the wooded mound to the ruined castle, and 
showed us the site of the famous well, the water of which 
was brought hither from Ryberolles by Bernard de Madic. 
So proud was he, they say, of his achievement, that when 
first he saw the water actually flowing within his castle 
walls, he shouted, " Ha, now, whether God wishes it or 
not, we shall have plenty of good water at Madic " ; but 
at the blasphemy, observed the priest piously, the castle 
crumbled away at his feet. Later it was rebuilt by his 
son, who added four great towers, which he named after 
four favourite saints. One, that of Saint Yves, still stands, 



CASTLE OF MADIC 115 

and in it is a dungeon where they say a lord of Madic, in 
the good old days before the Revolution, used to keep and 
starve the children of obstinate tenants, that their cries 
might stimulate their parents to pay his exorbitant 
demands. There is a loophole through which, it is said, 
may still be heard the little voices crying and praying for 
mercy. 

Among the trees which crown the hill lies the castle 
chapel, to which the members of the family are still 
brought for burial. There lie^the descendants of Gaillarde 
de Madic, last of the original race, by whose marriage the 
house of Madic became merged in the great family of 
Chabannes, so nearly related to the Counts of Angouleme 
and lords of Ventadour. There no doubt lies the well- 
known Antoine de Chabannes, who fought, as a boy, in 
the Hundred Years' War, and was at the Battle of Verneuil 
when the French were defeated. The Count of Ventadour, 
being wounded, had called on his young page to save 
himself. " Those whose name I have the honour to bear," 
said the boy proudly, " knew not how to fly ! I have no 
wish to learn, neither would I begin my life in that 
fashion ! " 

It is said that the Duke of Bedford, hearing the speech, 
was so struck with admiration, that he sent the lad home 
without demanding a ransom. 

But the real story of Madic, the story which is told to 
the children as they sit by the fire of a winter's night, 
happened long before the days of Antoine de Chabannes, 
during that prehistoric period which we designate as Once 
upon a time. 

Once upon a time, therefore, there was a Duke of Madic 
named Rene, who had an only child called Yolande. A 
prodigy of beauty was Yolande, according to my friend 



u6 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

who told me the story. Her eyes were blue as corn- 
flowers, and her golden hair so long that when she went 
a-riding, her curls mingled with the white tail of her 
palfrey ; so that all the young lords of Auvergne were 
dying for love of her. But Yolande, continuing to smile 
indiscriminately on them all, her father, unwilling or 
perhaps afraid to show a preference for any one of them, 
declared that he would bestow his daughter on that man 
who could carry her from one side of the Dordogne to 
the other. It was a curious test for the Duke to think of, 
and seems to point to the fact that the daughters of Madic 
were beyond the average in the matter of weight, and this 
is borne out by the sequel. 

Then Hugues de Crozant took the fair child in his 
arms ; but half-way across, staggering and exhausted, was 
obliged to deposit his precious burden in a boat which 
lay ready moored in the river. (Observe that evidently 
such an emergency was expected.) It was the same with 
Guy de Bort, Rene de Rochemaure, Roger de Ventadour, 
Raymond de Mauriac, and all the rest of the lovesick 
youths. At last there came forward the Duke's young 
squire, Alain, with whom Yolande had long been carrying 
on a secret flirtation. Every one watched and wondered 
as h? took her in his arms. Now they are in mid stream, 
now nearing the other bank ! But just as the Duke was, 
no doubt, debating whether he should break his word, or 
give his daughter to this insignificant squire, he saw the 
young man, who had set down his burden on the further 
bank, fall exhausted at her feet. And there they lie 
to-day! They look exactly like a couple of rocks, but 
every child at Madic knows that really, one of them is 
the fair but TOO too SOLID Yolande, and the other her 
faithful lover Alain, the Squire of Madic. 



NOTRE DAME DE CHAMPAGNAC 117 

One of the places in Auvergne I had been most anxious 
to visit was the Castle of Ventadour, the scene of many 
thrilling episodes in the Hundred Years' War. It lies in a 
remote valley, about ,fifty kilometres to the west of Bort, 
among some of the grandest scenery in France. 

On the way we passed Champagnac, a little village where, 
according to the Vicar of Madic, was a very ancient statue 
of the Virgin. We found the church curious enough to 
repay us for our visit, but the statue had disappeared, and 
we were about to leave the village, when I saw an old woman 
watching us from her door. She was so much like a heathen 
statue herself, that I went over and questioned her. Oh yes, 
there was a saint, some said she was Saint Anne, some 
called her La Bonne Dame. Formerly she was to be found 
in the church, but at present she was residing in the house 
of Monsieur le Cure. 

I think we must have disturbed poor Monsieur le Cure 
at a critical part of his sermon, for he came out still holding 
his pen, very red and decidedly irritable, and declared he 
knew nothing whatever about the statue. However, on my 
mentioning the Vicar of Madic, he growled out something, 
and calling his servant, told her in a surly way, to take us up 
to the attic, and there we found her. What she was like 
before her face decayed, it is impossible to say. The ser- 
vant, who was much more agreeable and interesting than 
her master, told us that King Clovis gave the statue to 
the church, and that before the coming of Notre Dame 
de Lourdes it had stood above the high altar. 

What a weird-looking object ! Probably one of those 
mysterious goddesses, which the Merovingian king 
worshipped, before he received baptism at the hands of 
Saint Remi at Reims. Like most converts, Clovis, after 
his conversion, was an enthusiastic son of the Church. 



n8 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

The Bishop had adjured him " to adore what he had 
formerly burned, and to burn what he had formerly adored ! " 
and for the most part he did so, but perhaps spared this 
particular deity, thinking that in so remote a place as 
Champagnac, her pagan characteristics would go unnoticed. 
Possibly he may even have had a lingering regard for, or fear 
of her, or thought that she bore a resemblance to his wife 
Clothilde ! there is no knowing what fancies actuated the 
kings of those times. At all events here she is, very ancient, 
very mysterious, and in spite of her Christian reputation, as 
pagan at heart as Clovis himself remained for all the efforts 
of his wife, and the saintly Bishop of Reims. 

We took care' not to see the priest on our way out, 
and were soon en route for Neuvic. It is a wonderful road, 
rather too wonderful for me, whose nerves are none of the 
strongest. Shortly after leaving Champagnac, which lies 
high on a sort of tableland, we began plunging down into 
the gorge of the Dordogne. No words can describe its 
grandeur. Before us opened a yawning gulf, down whose 
rocky precipitous sides, a zigzag path led in and out among 
dark and spreading trees, to the glittering foaming river 
below. I have negotiated some exciting roads in my time, 
but never one like this ; and though I remember it, it is by 
flashes, caught as our front wheels were hesitating on the 
brink of nothingness ! Once for a moment, as we were 
crossing the suspension-bridge which hangs like a spider's 
thread from cliff to cliff, I had time to breathe and look 
around. We were in the depths of the mighty canon, 
which the Dordogne has cut, and is still cutting through the 
heart of the mountains, and all the air was full of the roar 
and tumult of the turbulent tossing waters. Then the car 
reached the farther bank, and began turning and twisting 
up the cliffs like a fly. Gradually as we rose higher, the 





THE CASTLE OF VENTADOUR 



CASTLE OF VENTADOUR 119 

sound of the torrent died away, beech and chestnut gave 
place to oak and fir, till presently we found ourselves high 
up among dwarfish shrubs and purple heather, the air full of 
the buzz of insects, and the sweet breath of pinks and wild 
thyme. The gorse was still in flower, over it the mountain 
spiders had hung what the peasants call " Jetons de la Bonne- 
Ange," which in the sunshine sparkled like a jewelled veil. 
Now an eagle is flapping his great curved wings above 
us. — But just as I am beginning to recover a little, and 
enjoy the comparative security of the road, we drop into 
another valley, and the way leads us through a net- 
work of gorges. 

Suddenly, on turning a corner, high up in the sky, an 
enormous crag, and on the crag, Ventadour ! I had never 
pictured the castle, but I knew it directly I saw it. Who 
but Geoffrey Tete Noir would have set his heart on such 
a place ! who but he would ever have been able to capture 
it ? For a time we lost sight of it again, and the road 
began climbing, climbing. Then all at once we emerged 
on a ledge of rock, and there, just opposite, still towering 
above us, and separated from us by a deep and narrow 
chasm, was the castle. 

Leaving the car to take care of itself, we scrambled down 
to the river, and swarmed up the rocky path to the fortress 
which hangs above it like an eagle's nest. 

As we neared the outer door, I almost expected to find 
it barred against us, and even as we emerged from the 
steep and narrow passage leading into the courtyard, one 
instinctively looked around for the brigands Alleyn Roux 
and his brother Peter, and all the rest of the terrible band. 
But inside the walls all was silent and empty. It is still 
possible, with a little imagination, to make out the plan 
of the castle. There is the great carved chimney-piece 



120 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

beside which the old Count of Ventadour-Montpensier was 
no doubt peacefully dreaming his after-dinner dreams, when 
Pons du Bois, his treacherous squire, opened the gate to 
that most cruel of Bretons, Geoffrey Tete Noir. Through 
this doorway the good Count and his family were expelled, 
no doubt thinking themselves happy in being allowed to 
take their lives to their other castle of Montpensier, hard 
by Aigueperse. 

Then what wild doings began at Ventadour ! Geoffrey 
and his Companions, as they styled themselves, kept pos- 
session, ravaging the country, and taking all the strongest 
castles one after another. Among the band was a certain 
Limousine squire, by name Amerigot Marche, of whom we 
shall hear more anon. At last things came to such a pass, 
that the French under Sir John Bonne-lance, of whom we 
have already heard, set out to besiege Ventadour. The 
crag, so inaccessible from the front, stretches back in a 
narrow isthmus, connecting it with the high land which closes 
in the valley. Here, and down by the stream, the French 
erected blockhouses. But Geoffrey only laughed, for he 
knew that the castle could not be taken by storm, and was 
provisioned for seven or eight years. Just to pass the time, 
however, he and his friends used to go out for a skirmish 
now and then, and it was during one of these fights that the 
Chief was wounded in the head. As I sat looking at the 
keep clasped in the knotted arms of the ancient ivy, I 
began wondering how they dragged the wounded man up 
the twenty-foot ladder, which gave access to the entrance. 
For it was in the donjon that the commander had his 
rooms. 

I pictured that strange death scene, when, calling all his 
associates together, the dying man appointed his successors 
and made his will. 



GEOFFREY TETE NOIR 121 

"The sum I have mentioned," he concluded, "you will 
find in that chest : divide it therefore among you fairly and 
honourably, for you should behave like brothers, without 
riot or strife. But should the Devil get among you, and 
you cannot agree, here is a well-tempered sharp axe : break 
open the chest, and in God's Name let those who can, seize 
the contents ! " 

As we wandered about the ruins, I found many inter- 
esting relics of the past : the oven where the poor, wild, 
faithful creature who passed as Geoffrey's wife, baked his 
bread ; a door opening over a precipice, most convenient 
for an unwelcome guest, who had supped too well to see his 
way very clearly to his bedroom. But we searched in vain 
for any sign of Geoffrey's tomb. The site of the Chapel 
of Saint George may still be traced, but the centuries have 
piled their debris of moss and fallen stones over the pave- 
ment, so that nothing remains of Geoffrey Tete Noir but the 
old Chronicle. 

We found something to eat at a tiny village, lying back 
on the isthmus, where the French blockhouses were once 
erected ; and as we munched the sausage and bread, Veuve 
Lautrec, who kept the little restaurant, waited on us while 
her old mother dozed in the chimney. No doubt they had 
the blood of the bandits in their veins, but it must have grown 
honest with time, for they charged us a most ridiculous 
sum, and insisted on wrapping up the remains of the feast 
in an old bit of newspaper, for us to take with us ! 

Either my nerves had been upset with the visit to 
Geoffrey Tete Noir, or else the road was even more ap- 
palling when taken in the reverse direction. It seemed 
almost impossible for the car to turn safely round the little 
hairpin twists. Suddenly one would come face to face 
with nothing but a jump into the yawning chasm. Then we 



122 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

would swing safely round, and for a moment one breathed ; 
but only for a moment. Again and again the same thing 
happened, till I began to get used to it, and almost 
enjoyed the excitement of the momentary look into the face 
of death. At last I took no notice of the turns, and when 
we passed the viaduct, and began the safe upward climb, it 
seemed quite tame. But how splendid was the view. In 
the depths, the river, its swift stream broken into foam, 
singing, dancing over the rocks. On either hand basalt 
cliffs overgrown with verdure, and beyond, far up in the 
wild regions where the river takes its rise, the purple hills 
of the Mont Dore. 

It was a long long way to Condat, but we reached it at 
last, and found the little town full of soldiers, a company 
from Le Puy having taken possession of it. They were 
very merry over dinner, and we thought we should pro- 
bably have a disturbed night, but by nine o'clock every man 
was in bed ; and as I looked out of my window to say 
good night to the moon, sailing high over the solemn 
mountains, I could hear nothing but the grasshoppers, 
and the stealthy brush of a bat's wing as he hurried past. 




wv.- 



' "' ■•' •< 



CHAPTER VII 

Condat — Riom-es- Montague — The Castle of Apchon — La Font 
Sainte — Saint Hippolyte — Cheylade and Saint-Leger — Dienne 

NEXT morning we were awakened early by the sound 
of bugles. The soldiers were going off. From be- 
hind my curtains I watched them start, at their short quick 
march, so different from that of the English. Evidently 
a good many had fallen out the day before, for the 
ambulances were full. Beside them, like death, rode the 
doctor on his white horse ! 

Though the sun had not yet reached Condat, it sparkled 
so gaily on the hills, that we were tempted to make an 
early start. But though we were early, the inn was earlier 
still, for there was much cleaning to be done after the sol- 
diers' visit. Every copper pot and pan had been moved 
out into the street, the portable boilers were steaming in 
the yard, GeVaud was already in the midst of his day's 
work polishing the floor of the salle a manger, while the 
passages upstairs were so piled with sheets and dirty 
pillow-cases, that they were almost impassable. 

Auvergne is a country of extremes so far as its roads 
are concerned : if one is not climbing a mountain, one is 
rushing down into a gorge. This morning the way led 
steeply upward, so that soon, from the sunny heights we 
looked down into bosky depths, still full of the shadows of 
night. I imagine it was like the contemplation of one's 
past life after reaching Paradise. Instinctively I drew a 
long breath full of the perfume of flowers, and the joy 



124 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

of living. Everywhere the ground was golden with 
shepherd's purse, so that we seemed to have sunshine 
below as well as above. Soon we came upon the village 
of Saint-Amandin, where haymakers were already at 
work. — But I cannot take you mile by mile to Riom- 
es-Montagne, you would be more tired than I should. 
We reached it when the day was still young, a little old- 
world town, lying in a long, shallow, flat-bottomed valley, 
surrounded by mountain summits. 

We had been afraid to pass the night at the Hotel de la 
Roche, not finding it starred in the guide-book, but it is 
quite an excellent place. While waiting for lunch, we 
strolled over to the church, which is finely sculptured 
inside and out, with very extraordinary and interesting 
capitals to the heavy Roman pillars. The whole of this 
district of Cantal, was in 733 overrun by hordes of Arabs, 
who left their trace on some of the names of the district. 
It seems that after the Infidels had been defeated at 
Poitiers by Charles Martel, some of them, on their way 
southward, took refuge among the mountains of Auvergne, 
even penetrating to these wild districts of Cantal. They 
were, however, soon dislodged, and close to Riom there is 
a stream called Ruisseau des Sarrasins, where I was 
assured they were brought, just as the priests of Baal were 
brought to the Brook Kedron by Elijah, and there 
slaughtered. And since that time nothing has happened 
at Riom-es-Montagne, save that in 1588 the plague paid 
it a visit and carried off most of the inhabitants. But that 
was so usual an occurrence in those days, that it is 
scarcely worth mentioning. 

We had one of those excellent early lunches, or break- 
fasts, for which Auvergne is famous. The cheese, in 
particular, was delicious. Every commune has its special 



RIOM-ES-MONTAGNE 125 

cheese, and that of Riom is noted throughout Cantal. It 
is a kind of creamy curd, and to see it eaten as it should 
be eaten, you should go to the Hotel de la Roche on a 
market day, and lunch with the farmers. We were already 
hard at work, when there entered a sturdy fellow in a 
curious cloak of stripped blanket, made like a double 
petticoat, gathered at the neck, and furnished with a broad 
scarlet collar. It was the first time I had seen the 
Limousine, which is nevertheless the usual cloak of the 
men of Cantal, and is said by some to be the direct 
descendant of the Celtic " sagum." With a comprehensive 
nod to the table, the man, after disrobing, came and took 
his seat beside me. He had a round head, merry eyes, 
and shaved on Sundays. This was Saturday ! He 
seemed to know every one, and there was much talk of 
cows, pigs, and the low price cheese was fetching, and how 
everything was going to Le Vilain, by whom they meant 
the Devil, though they seemed to take it fairly cheerfully, 
as the Cantalien takes everything. And all the time we 
sipped our wine, and cracked our hard biscuits, so that a 
noise went round the table as though a steam roller were 
crunching flints on a macadam road. 

Presently seme one called out to my neighbour : 
" Well ! Pierre, and how about Blaise ? Is he still at his 
tricks ? " 

" No, no ! " replied the man seriously. " That is 
finished, Dieu soit loue ! " 

There was a sudden movement of attention. Evidently 
the tricks of Blaise were well known. 

" It was Monsieur le Cure who found out what was 
the matter," pursued Pierre. " Ah, it is not for nothing they 
go to college, these priests ! " 

"But tell us . . ." 



126 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

"You know how Blaise loved his land during his 
lifetime ? " 

" Oh, he was a farmer ; none better ! But too close, look 
you ! Do you remember that time he broke off his son's 
match with Madeline Raulhac for the sake of fifty 
francs ? " 

A murmur of assent went round the table. 

" Yes," said Pierre, shaking his head. " He was too 
close, that was the beginning of it." 

" He ! He" ! Tell us ! " and the round heads came for- 
ward, and all the merry eyes were fixed on Pierre, while 
one man filled up the narrator's glass to assist him in his 
narrative. 

"You've heard how he's been seen walking about the 
farm ever since his death ? It got so bad that every one 
was afraid to go near the place after nighfall. So they 
asked Monsieur le Cure to bring the Blessed Water. 
You may believe there were many watching for Blaise 
next evening ! " 

" Did he come ? " the question was breathed rather than 
spoken. 

The farmer paused, and took a drink before replying. 

" Yes," said he slowly, " he came. You know the field 
which lies alongside Jean Dubuisson's land ? It was there 
Blaise always grew his finest wheat. Well, from the 
boundary wall came cries, groans ! Then they saw Blaise, 
at least Monsieur le Cure did, and what do you think he 
was doing ? " 

He had broken up several biscuits into jagged frag- 
ments, which, as he continued, he used to illustrate the 
story. 

" He was moving the stones of the boundary wall 
backward, backward, so ! on to the land which had been 



SUPERSTITIONS OF CANTAL 127 

his. And all the time he kept crying : " I enlarged my 
fields at the expense of my neighbour ! Cursed am I, in 
that I removed my neighbour's landmarks ! No man 
observed me, but on high all is known, and nothing is 
forgotten ! Woe is me ! Ah, woe is me ! " 

" And did you see the stones move ? " I asked, 
very much interested. Pierre turned and regarded me 
keenly. 

" I was not there," said he, " I had gone to the fair at 
Murat. But my sister's husband's mother told me you 
could smell the roasting of his flesh, for the stones were 
red hot ! " 

This district of Cantal is simply teeming with legends. 
Every rock has some story to tell. Either the Devil threw 
it at some one, or it tumbled out of the apron of La Bonne 
Ange, as she went spinning through the fields of heaven. 
The fountains foretell the future as surely as the fountains 
of ancient Greece, and the lakes are haunted by white 
fairies or Fades, who spin in the moonlight as busily as 
the Fates used to spin of old. In fact all the Celtic legends 
appear in Auvergne, as they do in Brittany, Wales, and 
Ireland, only here in Cantal, they are modified by the 
quaint humour which characterizes the people. For the 
Auvergnat dearly loves fun, and many of the stories he 
tells you are merely a series of practical jokes, in which 
the Devil plays a prominent part In the little villages, 
and lonely farms of Cantal, Georget, as he is sometimes 
familiarly and derisively called, in memory of the defeat 
he received at the hands of Saint George, is a very real 
person, and everybody you meet can tell of some village 
hero, who has had an encounter with the Prince of 
Darkness. As usual the Devil is always represented as 



128 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

coming off second best, the folk-tales being chiefly 
concerned with the ingenious methods employed in 
defeating the enemy, whose intellect to tell the truth is 
not of the highest order ! 

I have heard and read so many of these Devil stories, 
that I might write a whole book about them. But of all 
the places connected with the Evil One, Apchon seems to 
have been the centre. I shall never forget my first view 
of the Castle of Apchon. On leaving Riom the road 
climbs steeply, forming at last a cornice on the precipitous 
mountain side, and just where the rocks tower most 
abruptly, we saw high above us on a basalt crag, the 
phantom of a castle. There it stood against the sky, 
glaring down upon us, with its sightless windows. Even 
on that bright July midday, it was a weird enough object ; 
but on a winter's night, when the moon is shining through 
the rents left by war and time, it must be enough to make 
the stoutest heart afraid. No wonder that it is haunted, 
the favourite resort of that Devil who, probably, symbolizes 
all the tyranny and cruelty of the terrible " Comptours " who 
once dwelt there. 

The Barons who bore this title of " Comptours " were 
the first lords of High Auvergne, and special privileges 
belonged to them. 

Under the Feudal System the King of France was of 
course merely the overlord of the other mighty lords, 
from whom he received various tributes, and the service of 
themselves and their vassals in time of war. But when the 
Crusades began this was found insufficient, and in 1 145, 
Louis VII., anxious to join the holy war preached by Saint 
Bernard, levied on every one a general tax of a tenth of 
their income ; and thus began the King's revenue, properly 
so called. It was the duty of the lords of Apchon to see 



CASTLE OF APCHON 129 

that this money was forthcoming, a duty from which they 
derived their title of Comptours. 

We had stopped instinctively as we came face to 
face with the castle, and were sitting gazing up at it in 
wonder and awe, when an old woman, with an immense 
goitre, came past, and accosted us with that curious need 
for entering into conversation, which distinguishes the 
peasant of Cantal, a need to which I owe much. " It is 
the first time the gentlefolk have seen the castle ? " she 
asked. I nodded. 

" Do you know who was the first lord ? " pursued the 
woman. 

" His name was Amblard," I replied, for I had learned 
so much from a copy of Chabrol I had found at Riom. 

" Ah," said the woman, " the books say that, do they ? 
Take my word for it, Madame, the first lord of Apchon, 
the father of all the rest, was the Devil himself, who lived 
in the Pre de la Guerre down yonder." 

This was something quite new to me. 

" And how did the Devil come there ? " 

And then she told me the following story. I hope my 
readers will not think the phraseology irreverent. The 
peasants of Cantal have a curiously familiar way of 
speaking of such things. 

" One day the Good God was holding His court in 
Paradise, when before Him came Saint Michael and 
the Devil. 

" ' He has been listening at the door, this robber of souls ! ' 
cried the saint. 

" ' Racca ! ' said the demon scornfully. And then began 

the fight. It was a great battle. They say that the blows 

of their swords were louder than thunder, and the sparks 

they struck brighter than the lightning. First Saint 

9 



130 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

Michael was wounded, which made him so angry that he 
struck out with his arm, and hit his enemy in the eye. 
Then the Devil, not able to look where he was going, 
stepped back on to a cloud, and so fell out of heaven. 
You may picture to yourself whether the angels were 
pleased or not ! No one loves the Devil. 

" ' Well struck, Michael ! ' cried Monseigneur Saint 
Peter, who had stepped up from the gate to watch 
the combat, ' well struck ! You have done for him this 
time ! ' 

" But he was mistaken. The Devil was not dead. He 
has as many lives as a cat. He fell into that field down 
there, and an evil day it was for Apchon." 

I give the story, which I have since come across else- 
where, thinking that it is possibly the peasants' ac- 
count of the origin of those lords of Apchon who, for so 
long, tyrannized over the district. It is also of course 
a Cantal version of the triumph of Saint Michael over 
Satan. 

It was a very steep path up to the castle, but when we 
reached the ruins the view fully repaid us. Just below the 
base of the outer wall, in a fissure of the basalt, is the 
fountain, which they say sprang up when the hoof of the 
mule, bearing the relics of Saint Mary to Mauriac, struck 
it. From the ruined windows we could look straight down 
into the automobile, for the castle actually overhangs the 
road, so that in old times nothing could go by unchallenged. 
Truly it must have been a dangerous route. How often 
have not these rocks resounded to the Apchon war-cry, 
" Haut ET CLAIR ! " as the brigand chief and his men 
swooped down on their prey ! 

Over one of the doors, I thought I could descry the arms 
imposed on Amblard d'Apchon, in memory of his crimes, a 



CASTLE OF APCHON 131 

cross, two gold coins, with an axe on one side, and a nun 
on the other. Every one at Apchon knows the story of 
Amblard, the wicked Comptour, who ran away with a nun 
and was pursued by Robert the Pious ; who, as punishment 
for the sacrilege, confiscated the Comptour's lands, and gave 
them to his cousin Guillaumen Brunei. But Amblard was 
not the man to bear such treatment, and shortly afterward 
chancing to meet his cousin at a wedding, picked a quarrel 
with him, and before any one could interfere, slew him with 
a battle-axe. Later his conscience seemed to have re- 
proached him, possibly he was growing old, and feared 
being claimed by his immortal ancestor, who still dwelt in 
the Pre" de la Guerre ! We hear of a journey to Rome, and 
a visit to Pope Silvester the Second, himself a man of 
Cantal. Having confessed his faults, Amblard received 
absolution, on the understanding that he made over a 
portion of his estates to the Abbey of Cluny, from whom 
ever afterwards the Comptours of Apchon held them. 1 
What became of the nun I never heard. But there are so 
many stories of the kind told of this " Don Juan," that one 
more or less makes little difference. 

The village of Apchon lies hidden away behind the basalt 
cliff on which the Castle stands, and is a most captivating 
place. The ancient houses form three sides of the rect- 
angular Place, at the end of which is the church, seem- 
ing as though it were sinking into the ground with age. 
But it is the colour of its roofs which so distinguishes 
Apchon. They are covered thick with lichen, and never 
have I seen such flaming shades of yellow, orange, and 
brown. And .over all towers the great rock, from which the 
castle continues to watch everything that goes on in the 
village. 

1 See chap. x. 



1 32 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

After passing A.pchon the road grows more and more 
wild and savage. Stopping once or twice to ask our way, 
we found that most of the people spoke only the curious 
patois which so pu les the traveller. They did not under- 
stand when I inquired for Saint-Hippolyte, which, 1 found 
later, is known here as Suint-Chipogui. 

This little village lies quite hidden among the mountains 

o( Cantal, The church, which is very ancient, is dedicated 

to the Christian impersonation o\ llippolytus, son of 

Theseus. You remember the story o\~ the Saint? He 

incurred the anger of the Emperor Decius by his devotion 

to the martyr Saint Lawrence, whom he finally buried. 

lust as he and his household were gathered around the 

altar to celebrate the Funeral Mass, or Feast oi the Dead, 

as it probably was, in rushed the soldiers to arrest him. 

All the members of his family were beheaded, but 

HippolytUS himself, as befitted one of his name, was tied 

by the feet to two wild horses, and dragged about over the 

stones and rocks, till he was torn and broken in pieces. 

But even as his pagan prototype was restored to lite by 

Artemis, and honoured in the Grove o\ Aricia: so was the 

Christian llippolytus raised up by the Blessed Virgin, 

and is honoured, among many other places, in this little 

village o( High Auvergne. 

Our Lady of La Font Sainte, another of the Black 
Sisters of the Mountains ol~ Auvergne, resembles her 
relative of Vassivieres, in that she has her summer and her 
winter home. After passing nine months of the year in 
the Church of Saint- llippolyte ; on the second o( July, the 
Feast of the Visitation, she starts at eight in the morning- for 
the mountains. Everything I have said o( "La Montfk" 
of Our Lady of Vassivieres is equally true ot her sister 
of Font Sainte. The pilgrims flock from far and near. 



NOTRE DAME DE LA FONT SAINTE 133 

The honour of acting as her living impersonation, or in 
other words of being the Queen of " La Montee " (though it 
has lost its first significance, and become merely a question 
of bearing the statue), is still put up to auction, and 
eagerly bid for. 

If for any cause the procession is not formed, the statue 
travels up by itself. Many of the characteristics of this 
Black Virgin point to the fact that she is descended from 
some nature goddess, once worshipped on the mountain. 
Even the priest will tell you, as he told me, that the 
fountain was probably a sacred Druidical spring, which 
the Church of Christ transformed, placing it under the 
protection of Mary. As he truly remarked, it is quite 
common for a new religion to allow its converts to retain 
some of their old superstitions and practices, and as 
for the statue itself, it is well known that from time 
immemorial a virgin goddess has presided over these sacred 
fountains. 

Auvergne has always been peculiarly devoted to the 
service of the Virgin. " Notre Dame de Haute Auvergne ! 
Marie, Reine d'Auvergne ! Regina Arverniae ! " As has 
been well said, " She reigns from Aurillac to Clermont, 
holding the castles under Her sceptre, guarding the towns, 
the monasteries, the hamlets. She governs this country, of 
which Her Son Jesus is King, for its own well-being, and 
the splendour and glory of France." But we must not lose 
sight of the fact that all these ancient worshipping-places 
were in use long before the days when the Blessed Virgin 
found Her way to Auvergne ; and it is possible that here 
on the mountain was adored a Gaulish impersonation 
of Artemis, just as the village below was probably asso- 
ciated with the memory of some hero corresponding with 
Hippolytus. 



134 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

The priest of Saint-Hippolyte is certainly one of the 
pleasantest persons to be met with in Auvergne. We 
found him in his little study, a young man with red hair 
and delightful easy manners. These priests certainly fulfil 
one of the apostolic injunctions, they "use hospitality 
without grudging," and the Grave de Bordeaux he gave 
us was simply delicious. But good as it was, the sugges- 
tion he made, of himself taking us up to the chapel, was 
better. Just as we were starting we were joined by a 
stout individual, who turned out to be a native of Saint- 
Hippolyte, who had settled as a cloth merchant at Lyon, 
and returned every year to spend a month among his 
mountains. On the way up he walked with my husband, and 
I with the priest, who put me through a regular catechism 
concerning the forms and ceremonies of our National 
Church. 

" Are most of the English, Christians ? " he asked. I 
replied that they were, adding that there were even among 
them many Catholics, though I myself belonged to the 
Church of England. 

" Oh," he exclaimed politely, " but you cannot help 
that ! No doubt you were so educated. Besides, the 
Protestants of England are different from those of 
France, they take their religion au serieux. I am told 
they even keep a Holy Day, though on Saturday instead 
of Sunday." 

" No," said I, " Sunday is our Holy Day, just as in 
France." 

Up went his hands in apology. " A thousand pardons ! " 
he cried ; " I always confuse Jews and Protestants." 

He went on to ask about our form of baptism, and 
whether our marriages took place in church ; and here I 
had my revenge, for I told him we did not have to go 



LA FONT SAINTE 135 

to the " Mairie," that with us the religious service was 
considered sufficient, at which he seemed thoughtful. 

Presently he began telling me about the mountain, 
pointing out the height still known as the Camp des 
Anglais, where the Roi des Pillards, Amerigot March6, and 
his bandits established themselves in the fourteenth century, 
to the great distress of the country. Their prime object 
in coming this way, was to take the Castle of Apchon, 
where Guillaume, Captain of the Mountains of Auvergne, 
had entrenched himself. But in this they failed, and the 
priest showed me a dolmen called " La Tombe a l'Anglais, 
which he said marked the grave of a captain who fell in 
single combat )jt under the sword of the Seigneur d'Estang, 
one of the Comptour's allies. 

The original Christian sanctuary of La Font Sainte was 
destroyed during the Wars of Religion, and for many 
years the spot was left desolate. Pilgrims, however, 
continued to visit the fountain, till at last in 1743 a poor 
woman, one Marie Galvain, while engaged in prayer, saw 
a vision. Before her, on the margin of the pool, stood a 
tall, beautiful, and richly dressed lady. 

" Marie," said the apparition, " I was once honoured on 
this mountain, but to-day my oratory is desolate. I charge 
you, raise for me a chapel, on the spot where you shall find 
a stone marked with the sacred sign." And there it stands ! 
Just below, sheltered by a stone canopy, is the fountain, 
and an ancient group representing the meeting of Mary 
and Elizabeth, which, according to the priest, was brought 
from the East by some Crusader, most likely one of the 
Lords of Apchon. But the original statue, said to have 
been given to the chapel by Saint Louis, has disappeared. 
I saw the stone on which it was set down on its arrival : 
on it a cross has been planted. Before the chapel door 



136 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

lies that other mysterious stone, mentioned by the Virgin 
when indicating the site of the sanctuary. And on the 
edge of the fountain, is the stone on which the sacred feet 
of the apparition rested. In fact the whole place seems 
connected with the cult of sacred stones. The very fountain 
is said to have been called forth by three blows struck on 
the rock by the Virgin, and is used by the people of Cantal 
with just the same confidence as their ancestors felt in the 
time of the Druids. 

After visiting the interior of the chapel, where above the 
altar stands the successor of Saint Louis' statue, we turned 
to make our way down to Saint-Hippolyte. On the 
descent we changed partners, I walking with the stout 
cloth merchant, who regaled me with a number of 
hunting stories, and told me of a wolf he had seen 
on the mountain, when he was eleven years old. Later 
it was blown out of its den with dynamite, or so he 
declared, and the head sold for a hundred francs. I 
was told by this man, that in winter there are still 
wolves to be found round Saint-Hippolyte, and that 
the head of a she-wolf will fetch as much as a hundred 
and twenty-five francs. 

As we set off toward Cheylade, I asked my husband 
what he had been talking about, and found that the 
priest had put him through exactly the same catechism 
as I had undergone, for the purpose, I suppose, of com- 
paring our answers, and ascertaining whether we spoke 
the truth. 

At Cheylade there is a large and ancient church dedicated 
to Saint Leger, the well-known Bishop of Autun, friend 
of Queen Bethilde, widow of Clovis II. The story of his 
martyrdom is worth telling, as throwing some light on the 
manners of those times. Having incurred the hatred of 



SAINT LEGER 137 

the tyrant Ebroi'n, who was filling the country with blood 
and misery, the old bishop found himself and his town of 
Autun besieged by his enemy. Knowing that if the in- 
habitants fell into the hands of this murderer they would 
all be butchered, the old man without a moment's hesita- 
tion went and gave himself up. His eyes were torn out, 
the bleeding orbits burned with hot irons, yet not a cry 
did he utter ! Then the tyrant ordered him to be cast into 
a forest and left to starve. One of the executioners, how- 
ever, converted by the sight of his bravery, spared him. 
Yet he had better have let him die, for he was again taken, 
and this time the accounts of his tortures are so terrible 
that I cannot repeat them. One of the least was the 
tearing out of his tongue, which gave opportunity for an 
extraordinary miracle, as the saint immediately afterwards 
took the opportunity of preaching a long sermon, which 
converted most of his hearers ! 

But at Cheylade the saint's legend runs as follows. 
There has always stood in the church a very old statue of 
Leger, which is supposed to have great influence over the 
weather. At one time the people of the district who used 
to come and pray to the saint for rain, or vice versa, were 
accustomed to make offerings of food, offerings which 
were much appreciated by Monsieur le Cure and the 
Sacristan. Now, one wet summer, though the saint's 
help was sought as eagerly as ever, he seemed to turn 
a deaf ear, for the rain continued to pour in torrents, till 
the crops were in danger of being washed completely away. 
One or two of the farmers therefore put their heads to- 
gether. " If he will not work, he shall not eat ! " said they, 
and provisions began to fall off. The Cure only laughed ; 
but the Sacristan took the matter more seriously. One 
evening, just as the bell-ringer, an innocent, was about to 



138 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

close the church, he heard a voice coming from the 
direction of the statue. 

" Ignace," it said, " I am hungry ! No one comes to 
feed me. Take me out to the woods that I may eat the 
blackberries ! " 

Terrified, the man fell on his face, and the Sacristan, 
who had hidden himself behind the pedestal, took 
the opportunity to slip out. At last seeing that no- 
thing more happened, the bell-ringer rose, raised the 
statue on his shoulders, carried it to the Bois-Mary, 
and set it up among some blackberry bushes. Next 
morning there was great consternation when the Sacri- 
stan announced that, no doubt owing to the scandal- 
ous neglect of his people, the saint had departed. He 
was searched for everywhere, and at last found, lying 
flat on his face, his mouth covered with blackberry 
juice. 

Of course it was a miracle ! So a procession was 
formed, and the good saint was carried back in triumph 
to his chapel, and his fame spread far and wide, so that 
offerings poured in in such abundance, that even the bell- 
ringer got a share ! 

The true story and the popular legend seem to have 
little in common, save that in both the saint is taken out 
into the woods, is condemned to starvation, and his face 
discoloured, in one case by blood, in the other by blackberry 
juice ! 

There is perhaps no road in France so magnificent as 
that we traversed after leaving Cheylade. In winter it is 
impassable owing to the snow, which fills up the great 
gorges, and leaves the jagged mountains smooth and 
rounded as our own South Downs. Even in summer it is 



DIENNE 139 

so wild and lonely, that few persons traverse it. Upward 
and upward it leads, till passing between the summits of 
Puy Mary, and Roc de la Tourte Puy, it enters a gorge 
covered with sombre trees, and scored by innumerable 
waterfalls. Here we found solitary " burons," the little 
farms where the cheeses are made, where the cowherd and 
his assistant pass four months of every year, cut off from 
their fellow-men, buried between the sky and the moun- 
tain. What a life ! No wonder that if you happen to stop 
and ask your way of them, they will try and keep you 
talking as long as possible. But they are generally very 
hard to understand, though if you can make them out, 
you will hear enough weird stories of " Dracs " and 
sorcerers, to make you impatient of reaching your des- 
tination before dusk. 

At Dienne, on the rock called Laqueille, once stood a 
temple to Diana, from whom the little town still takes its 
name. Charlemagne, it is said, destroyed the building, 
and with the debris built a castle to defend the pass against 
the Saracens. Now, castle and temple alike have dis- 
appeared, but there is a wonderful old Byzantine church, 
carved outside with the strangest figures, and within you 
will find another Virgin, who has replaced the virgin 
goddess once worshipped on almost the same spot. It 
was growing dusk as we ran through Castel, with its church 
perched high above. Before us, on the rock Bonnevie, 
where once stood the castle of the Seigneurs of Murat, 
we saw looming the giant statue of Notre Dame which 
ever watches over the town. What a hill ! Down, down 
we sink, lower and lower ; all the climbing of the day 
reversed in a single descent ! At last, on turning a 
corner, we come upon the town, its tall grey roofs and 
many turrets crouching against the mountain side. 



140 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

Already lights are gleaming from some of the windows, 
and the sound of a merry-go-round comes up from the 
Place de la Boucherie, together with the solemn clang of 
bells ringing the " Angelus " in the old lead-covered tower 
of the Church of Notre Dame des Oliviers. 



CHAPTER VIII 

Murat— Notre Dame des Oliviers — The Butchers of Murat — 
Bredons — The Bridge of Bredons— Saint-Mary-le-Cros — Brioude — 
The Story of Louis Raimbaut and the Limousin — The Castle of La 
Mothe — Old Brioude — The Legend of Saint Julien — The Story of the 
Bridge — The Legend of Saint Bonnite 

LIKE many of the towns of Cantal, the history of 
Murat begins with the arrival of the first Christian 
missionary. He was called Antonin, and was a disciple 
of Saint Austremoine of Clermont, like him sent forth by 
Saint Peter to Christianize Gaul. In the side of a hill to 
the east of Murat you may still see his hermitage, with 
traces of the ancient paintings which once covered the 
inner walls, and a niche where, according to tradition, he 
set up a statue of the Virgin. 

What a charming place is this Murat ! No town I have 
visited has such a sense of the mountains. There they 
stand, in a mighty circle, the ancient craters, just as, 
according to the legend given by Arsene Vermenouze, 
they sank down at the word of God, these devils whose 
horns still protrude from the grass which has grown over 
their sleeping bodies. And in the midst, like a cone 
newly risen from the depths of the earth, is the steep rock 
Bonnevie. 

The castle which once crowned the height was destroyed 
in 1633 by the wrecker of strong places, Richelieu ; but the 
black basaltic columns are so strangely symmetrical, that 
it is not difficult to picture Murat still dominated by the 



142 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

impregnable fortress which the English, under Sir Robert 
Knollys, in 1360, stormed in vain. 

And over all, where once from the Dragon Tower, or 
the Tower of the White Rat, the beautiful Helis of Murat 
watched for the coming of her husband, Bertrand de Cardail- 
hac, stands the enormous statue of Our Lady of Auvergne, 
guarding the town from the mountains which, piled up 
behind, seem as though they might fall upon and crush it. 
Below, climbing up the cliff, and spreading out fanwise 
into the plain, is the town, with its narrow, winding streets 
and heavy gables. 

We had finished dinner, and were playing a game of 
poker patience, much to the delight of the landlady and 
the head waiter, when looking down I saw something 
black and shiny on the floor. It moved ! Horror ! 
A beetle ! They say that every one has some special 
aversion ; mine is the homely cockroach ! In a moment 
I was standing on my chair, shaking out my skirts ! How 
amused they were ! 

" Why, madam," cried the landlady, when she could 
speak for laughing, " it is only a ' cafard ' ! They have their 
processions across the floor every night, just like Christians. 
Come, my little Pierre ! " and stooping, she let the disgust- 
ing beast crawl over her hand ! This was too much, and 
we strolled out and found our way up to the Place de la 
Boucherie. There was no difficulty, for the raucous music 
of the merry-go-round was permeating every corner of the 
town. In the little square, booths had been set up, and 
the naphtha lamps were flaring among gaudy glass and 
crockery, and still gaudier sweetmeats. Here was a little 
theatre, where you were invited to go in and see the " Old 
Man of the Mountain," the " Fat Woman," a " Living 
Skeleton," while there, a " Cheap Jack " was yelling out 



THE BUTCHERS OF MURAT 143 

praises of a patent medicine. There were two merry- 
go-rounds, each playing a different tune, and trying 
to drown its rival ! In fact, all the fun of the fair was 
going on. 

My husband, persuaded by a tall gipsy to try his luck at 
the shooting-gallery, was quickly hemmed in by a double 
wall of swarthy ruffians, who watched, with ever-increasing 
respect, as he brought down the swinging pipe and other 
objects. 

For me, I stood by, half stunned by the harsh dis- 
cordant music, and thinking of the time, not so very long 
ago, when this clean little square reeked with the refuse 
of the butchers, and the smell was so horrible, that in 
1693, the plague was attracted by it, and paid Murat a 
visit. So many people died, they say, that they had to 
give up ringing the "passing bell" for fear of terrifying 
those who were left. 

The butchers of Murat have always formed a distinct 
caste. Even to-day, a man does not become a butcher ; 
like a poet, he is born to the trade. The whole clan lives 
in a special quarter in the very shadow of the church, the 
members being, in their way, as exclusive as the German 
Royal Family, for no butcher ever thinks of marrying out 
of his own trade, or bringing up his son to any other. 
They have their own customs, their own special dialect, 
and are most tenacious about the preservation of all 
their old traditions. They still live grouped around this 
little square, which bears their name, and there on the 
second of February, the Feast of the Purification, they 
hold a wonderful ceremony. 

It was Sister Marie-Ange, the aunt of my friend at 
Bort, who told me all about it. We called upon her next 
morning, at the convent beside the church. She seemed 



144 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

delighted to see us, asking a thousand questions about her 
niece, our journey, our impressions of Murat, and finally, 
as it was Sunday, marched us off to church, where I sat 
gazing up at the black-robed, black-faced statue of the 
Virgin of Murat. Of all the Black Virgins I have seen, 
this is the blackest. Her sable robes are indeed trimmed 
with ermine, royally, as befits the " Queen of the Moun- 
tains," but for the rest, she is black as night, black as ink, 
black as the proverbial Erebus, black as the blackest thing 
you can think of, black as the Moors, who left their name 
impressed on the town Murat 

After Mass we approached the altar, and Sister Marie- 
Ange told me how the lamps before the statue of this 
" Olive of the Fields " must always be filled with pure 
olive oil, or they will instantly go out. She told me also, 
how, in 1493, the church had been struck by lightning, 
and burned to the ground. Everything was consumed, 
yet there, in the midst of the ashes, where the fire had 
waxed fiercest, they found the statue of Notre Dame 
des Oliviers, blackened by the smoke and flame, yet 
unconsumed. 

" You must come to Murat on the second of February," 
said Sister Marie-Ange, "then you will see Our Good 
Mother in all her glory, crowned, and wearing her green 
robe of state." 

" Green ? " said I. " Surely you mean blue." 

But the Sister assured me that the colour of the Virgin 
of Murat was green. The priests who carry the statue 
wear green dalmatiques. When a child is vowed to Our 
Lady of the Olives he is dressed in green. And when a 
young girl is received as a Congreganiste she is invested 
with the Green Ribbon. All this interested me very much, 
so, finding me a ready listener, the good lady went on to 



NOTRE DAME DES OLIVIERS 145 

tell me about the festival of the Purification. It seems 
that for some reason or other the butchers of Murat con- 
sider that the statue belongs in an especial manner to them, 
and their reverence for it is unbounded. For eight days 
before the feast the bells are rung to announce the coming 
ceremony. On the day itself, immediately after the Bene- 
diction of the Candles, the statue is placed on a carrier, 
and four young butchers, decked in their gayest costumes, 
carry it out to an altar which has been raised in the Place 
de la Boucherie. Then all the men, women, and children 
of the fraternity crowd round to kiss the hem of the green 
robe, and drop offerings into the bag which hangs from 
the neck of the image. And when all is finished, back 
she is borne in state to the church, and set in her niche on 
the north side of the high altar. 

As I listened to the good sister's description of the 
ceremony, all manner of wild thoughts assailed me. What 
was the origin of these butchers of Murat, who dwell apart, 
and never marry out of their own clan ? We know that 
during the Middle Ages it was the cagots or lepers who 
slaughtered the animals, just as they were the rope-makers, 
and carpenters of the community. They were outcasts in 
those days, forbidden to mix with their fellow-men. Is it 
possible that there is any connection between them, and 
the haughty well-to-do tradesmen of Murat ? Again, what 
goddess did Saint Antonin find here at his coming ? Did 
she take a delight in slaughter, and have a sanctuary in 
the shambles ? If so was she related to the virgin Diana, 
who had like tastes, and whom we have already found near 
by at Dienne, and possibly at Font Sainte ? 

But Sister Marie Ange is troubled with none of these 
heretical speculations. To her, religion began with the 
coming of Christianity, and all which came before, all the 
10 



146 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

yearning after an ideal, the sacrifice, the striving after 
perfection, as the early men of these parts understood 
perfection, is classed under the name of, and dismissed 
as, paganism. 

Opposite the Rock Bonnevie, on the farther side of the 
River Alagnon, rises another steep hill, on which is the 
ancient church of Bredons. There has been a bridge over 
the river here, ever since bridges were known in Cantal, and 
the old arch, whose remains are still to be seen, was formerly 
presided over by a very curious statue of the Virgin, now 
to be found in the church on the hill above. The statue 
has always been held in the greatest veneration by the 
people of the district, and when it still occupied its old 
position as guardian of the bridge, no one ever thought of 
passing without kneeling and offering up a prayer. The 
most astounding stories are told of cures effected by 
this Virgin, especially on those afflicted with ulcers, 
and other skin diseases. The church in which the image 
must now be sought is itself a wonderful old building, 
consecrated by Durand, Bishop of Clermont in 1095, 
and scarcely touched since. Indeed Bredons is a most 
interesting place, well worth the steep climb it takes to 
reach it. 

There is little doubt that it was the original worshipping 
place of the district, just as the Rock Bonnevie was the 
original fortress. 

Immediately outside the village, there is an ancient 
stone covered with mysterious sculptures and hieroglyphics, 
which archaeologists tell us was once the centre of some 
early cult. In those days Bredons was a difficult place to 
reach, for as there was no bridge, the river had to be 
forded, and the river god as usual took his toll of life. 
Therefore, when at last a bridge was built, a little grotto 




THE ROAD TO BREDONS 



BREDONS 147 

was hollowed at foot of the rock on the Bredons side, 
that pilgrims might return thanks for their safe passage, 
before beginning their ascent to the sanctuary on the 
summit. 

The first Christian church of the neighbourhood was 
raised on this summit, on the site of the ancient sanctuary ; 
and even to-day, Bredons is the mother church, retaining, 
among other privileges, the right of ringing of her bells, 
before those of her daughter of Murat. At foot of the 
rock, they left the old grotto, with its statue of the kindly 
goddess, who presided over the safety of travellers, and 
there long afterwards, old Pere Blanche found pilgrims 
going to worship at the shrine of Notre Dame du 
Pont. 

Standing on the hill of Bredons, we have a fine view of 
the valley, from which rise the volcanoes, the dead volcanoes, 
so emblematical of the tumult of massacre and war, through 
which Murat has passed. There stand the jagged, ruined 
summits, their life extinct, as that of the Seigneurs who 
once dwelt on Rock Bonnevie. 

These "Viscounts," as they are styled, seem to have 
been a turbulent race. The last who made any figure in 
the history of France, was Jacques d'Armagnac, Due de 
Nemours. Every one will remember what a thorn he was 
in the side of his sovereign, Louis the Eleventh. It was 
here that he hatched most of his plots against the king. 
Taken at last, he was carried to Paris, and put into one of 
those cages which were then in vogue, where he remained 
till the day he was beheaded. His fate was hard, but he 
had given a world of trouble, and the king behaved better 
than might have been expected, for after the death of 
Armagnac, he restored Murat to his children. Under the 
nave of Bredons church, five of the Counts of Armagnac 



148 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

lie buried, but the stones are so worn that it is difficult to 
say which they are. 

From Murat almost to Brioude we had the company of 
the Alagnon, one of those streams which take their rise on 
the flanks of the Plomb de Cantal, that great central mass 
which forms the pivot of the district. For to understand 
the geography of this department, one must realize its 
origin. Imagine a vast volcano, the base twenty- five leagues 
in diameter. Long long ago it ceased its activity, and the 
huge cone has sunk little by little, so that the edge of the 
shallow crater now forms a circle of peaks, which are the 
great mountains or Puys of the district, Puy Mary, Puy 
Gros, Puy Brunet, and so on, while in the centre of the ring 
rises Puy Griou. Down the sides of the mighty mass, the 
streams which rise above have worn sixteen great rectilinear 
valleys, disposed like the spokes of a wheel. For a time 
they run regularly enough, but presently, meeting the 
great circle of primary rock, which surrounds the volcano 
as a coral reef surrounds its island, they take to winding 
about as though the streams which formed them were 
seeking an exit. Finally, they break through in three 
great channels, the gorges of the Alagnon, the Lot, and 
the Dordogne. Such, according to a French writer, is 
Cantal. 

And it was down the first of these magnificent canons 
that we made our way toward Brioude. 

The road proved fairly level, running along the bottom 
of the valley, but the cliffs on either hand are stupendous, 
and nothing can be more beautiful than these towering 
walls of violet rock hung with rich green foliage. So 
winding is the river that it is impossible to see one's way 
or more than a few feet ahead, and as the road twists and 
turns according to the windings of the gorge, so the view 



SAINT-MARY-LE-CROS 149 

is continually changing its character. Once, hiding behind 
a projection of the cliff, we came upon the little village of 
Saint-Mary-le-Cros, where the great saint of Cantal, Mary 
or Marius, had his hermitage. This Valley of the Alagnon 
was his special field, and here he laboured unceasingly. It 
would be a wild place to settle in even to-day, but it is 
incredible to think of an educated Italian taking up his 
abode there in the middle of the first century. Yet that 
is what Mary did. He lived in a grotto, now hidden 
by the church, and passed the remainder of his life minis- 
tering to the wants of the savage people who dwelt in the 
forests around. Little by little they grew to understand 
both him and his religion, till the valley of the Alagnon 
from Neussargues to Brioude became Christian. And 
though he died in the year 84, his memory is still green in 
the hearts of the people. His body rests to-day at Mauriac, 
but here in the little village where he lived, they still show 
the rock chair where he sat and preached, La Chaire de 
Saint Mary; and though the procession formerly made 
to it has been given up, sick people continue to go 
and sit in it to be cured of various diseases. Quite 
close by is Saint Mary's Fountain, still in great repute ; 
and above all there is the gorge, up and down which 
the old man used to wander, healing the sick, and 
preaching the gospel. 

The town of Brioude is known to all students of 
Froissart, as the head-quarters of the Brigand Louis 
Raimbaut, and his brother-in-arms the Limousin. No 
doubt my readers have often pictured the old Chronicler 
seated beside the fire at the Hostel of the Moon, at 
Orthez, listening while the Gascon squire Le Bastot de 
Mauleon regaled him with the story of these two rascals. 
They lived in the days when this part of France had fallen 



150 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

into the hands of the " Companies," the days of Edward 
the Black Prince, and the Battle of Poitiers. Most of 
the great French nobles were hostages in England, and 
the country was at the mercy of lawless bandits. Brioude 
had already suffered much from a certain Sir Seguin de 
Batefol, who, after pillaging the neighbourhood, had 
marched back with great plunder to Gascony, from whence 
he had come, and, to use the words of the old Chronicle, 
" Of this Sir Seguin I know nothing more, except that by 
accident I heard that he died in an extraordinary manner. 
God pardon him for all his misdeeds ! " 

But of his successors, Louis Raimbaut, and his friend 
the Limousin, Froissart has much to tell. We talked of it, 
the landlord and I, as we sat by the fire that evening, for 
Brioude is still, as in the days of Sidonius Apollinaris, 
" a town favourable to strangers." The inn was so old and 
quaint, that I felt almost as though I were sitting in the 
parlour at Orthez, hearing the story for the first time. As 
I spoke of Louis Raimbaut's beautiful mistress, and told 
of her being given into the charge of the Limousin while 
Louis went on his marauding expeditions, my host nodded 
sagely as though guessing what the result of that rash act 
would be. And when I went on to tell of the Limousin's 
punishment, how he was marched naked, and flogged with 
rods, through the streets, while before him trumpets were 
sounded, and his treachery proclaimed, till finally with 
nothing but an old coat to cover him he was thrust out of 
the gate into the open country, the landlord gazed at me in 
open-eyed wonder and delight. 

" I have lived here all my life," said he at last, 
" and I never heard of them before ! And what happened 
afterwards, for I'll warrant that was not the end of the 
matter ? " 



LOUIS RAIMBAUT 151 

(Again I thought of Froissart and smiled. " Wishing 
him to continue his conversation," says the Chronicle, " I 
asked what was become of the gallant squire Louis 
Raimbaut . . . ") 

"No," said I, "you are right. It was not the end. The 
Limousin's opportunity came at last. He left the Com- 
panions, and joined the French, and knowing all Louis' 
plans, was soon able to catch him returning from one of 
his journeys." 

The landlord laughed with excitement. 

" I wish I had been there ! " he cried. " I wonder what 
he said when he came face to face with Louis Raimbaut ! " 

" I can tell you," said I, and quoted : " Louis, Louis, you 
should have been better accompanied. Do you remember 
the insult and shame you made me undergo at Brioude? 
I did not think that for a woman you would have made me 
suffer what you did ! Had it happened to me I should not 
have been so angry ! " 

" And he was right ! " cried my host, slapping his knee. 
" She was not worth it ! Do you think I would quarrel 
with my best friend for such a woman as that ? " 

" As Madame cares for such stories," suggested the 
landlady, who had been listening silently, as she stitched 
away by the light of a paraffin lamp, " you might take 
her, Mathurin, to Chateau de La Mothe, to see Tante 
Angelique." 

" To be sure ! " exclaimed her husband, " the very thing ! 
The good aunt will be delighted to have a listener, and 
Madame will, I am sure, be pleased with the castle, which 
indeed is very ancient, built, they say, in the time of Philip 
Augustus." 

The project sounded delightful, so next morning about 
ten o'clock we found ourselves running down the straight 



152 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

level road at the end of which stands the hill, still crowned 
by the picturesque castle of La Mothe. 

The Viscounts who ruled here before the time of the 
Revolution, were a branch of the family of Canillac, and bore 
the name of La Mothe-Canillac. Of all the wicked nobles 
of Auvergne, and there was at least one on every hill-top, 
these lords of Canillac were the worst. Speaking of the 
head of the house in 1665, Flechier says that the peculiar 
character of the Marquis was that he felt absolutely no 
remorse, simply laughing at all his wickedness ! 

And what was true of him was true of all the other 
members of his family, even of Monsieur de La Mothe de 
Canillac, who, with his wife and only daughter, inhabited 
this castle, and was the best of the bad race. So when 
Louis XIV. sent out his great assize to inquire into the 
crimes of the nobles of Auvergne, one of the first to be 
arrested was the lord of La Mothe. 

The village bears about the same relation to the Chateau, 
that a pigsty does to a palace, and the sight of these still 
wretched hovels, cringing at the gate of the stately building, 
made me shudder. Yet no doubt they are very different 
to-day to what they once were. As we entered the great 
gloomy courtyard, the present slipped away with its ideas 
of Liberty, Equality, and Fraternity, and we were back in 
the days when the lords were still virtually the gods of 
the people over whom they ruled, regarding their vassals 
just as to-day a farmer regards his cattle : men, women, 
and children merely so much live stock, to be used ac- 
cording to the pleasure of Monseigneur !; 

" Bonjour, Mathurin ! " 

And there, at the great door, where once Monsieur le 
Marquis had stood, whipping his boot impatiently as he 
waited for his horse, I saw a little smiling old woman. 



CHATEAU DE LA MOTHE 153 

Tante Angelique must surely have been warned of our 
coming, so immaculate was her cap, so glossy her black 
gown and apron. The apartment too, which she rented in 
the castle, was as spick-and-span as she was. After 
Maturin and she had embraced, and we had been duly 
presented, she led us up the great stone staircase to her 
salon on the first floor. On the way we passed her kitchen, 
a narrow oak-panelled chamber, glittering with copper 
and brass, a place of lights and shadows, a study in warm 
orange and Vandyke brown. It was but a glimpse I 
caught, then found myself in a charming room where not a 
chair seemed to have been moved since the days of Les 
Grand Jours. " How I should love to come and write 
here ! " I exclaimed, looking enviously round the octagonal 
vaulted chamber, with its white-panelled walls. In the 
curtained alcove stood a bed, which might have belonged to 
Mademoiselle de la Mothe-Canillac, the last of the name ; 
while from the deeply recessed window one looked down 
over the broad valley of the Allier, to Brioude lying in the 
sunshine. 

" Mais, Madame, nothing would be easier ! N'est-ce pas, 
tante Angelique ? You would like Madame to come 
and write the history of the Chateau ? " cried the 
landlord. 

" And I could have this very room ? " I asked, picturing 
the lords and ladies whose memories would visit me, and 
whose stories I would tell. 

" Mais oui, certainement ! " replied la tante smilingly, " it 
is said to have always been the favourite chamber of 
Mademoiselle." I looked round the room with even keener 
interest. Already I felt the pride of ownership. 

" And what is that trap-door ? " I asked carelessly. " Ah, 
it is one of the oubliettes," said Tante Angelique. " Most 



154 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

of the rooms are provided with one. But they are no 
longer serviceable." 

Yet, in spite of this assurance, my desire to stay at La 
Mothe was vanishing. Fancy sleeping in a room with an 
oubliette ! An excellent notion no doubt, when the 
Canillacs still dwelt in the castle. These old walls had 
secrets to keep, and awkward visitors would arrive and ask 
questions. Well, give them a good supper, put them to 
sleep in one of the tower rooms, a bolt left unfastened, and 
— one heard no more of them ! 

The great castle is to-day let out in apartments. The 
Cure occupies the room where Monsieur de La Mothe was 
sleeping, when the Provost of Auvergne and his archers 
roused him, and marched him off to Clermont, to be tried 
and executed. Here, in what is now the priest's study, a 
Pope once slept ; the bed he used still stands in the alcove. 
But it is when one goes down to the cellars and dungeons 
that one realizes the character of these lords of Auvergne. 
Perhaps in no part of France did the lower classes suffer 
as they did here. Cut off by the mountains, the nobles 
were answerable to no one for their conduct, and for what- 
ever they did, their victims had no redress. From time to 
time inquiries had been held, but little or nothing was 
done. At last the local judges, waking to a sense of the 
situation, appealed to Louis XIV., and commissioners 
armed with extraordinary powers were sent to inquire 
into the state of affairs. One of the chiefs of the assize 
was Monsieur de Caumartin, Maitre de Requetes, who took 
with him his young son, and, fortunately for us, the boy's 
tutor, a young priest of thirty-five, Flechier, since known 
as the author of those entrancing Memoires, which give 
the only picture we have of Auvergne in the seventeenth 
century. The days he describes could not have been 



CHATEAU DE LA MOTHE 155 

pleasant for some of the nobles. During the four months 
that the assize lasted, more than twelve thousand cases 
were heard. Yet much remained undone, and it needed 
the Great Revolution to rid the land entirely of such 
oppression and wrong, as we find vestiges of in the 
dungeons of La Mothe. 

Les Souterrains, as Tante Angelique called them, 
with a comprehensive wave of the hand, are suggestive 
of truly mediaeval horrors. Down here was the original 
entrance to the castle, the steep narrow passage within 
the portcullis, hemmed in with dungeons and stone 
chambers, from which armed men could spring out on 
an unwelcome guest. Overhead are still openings, through 
which it was the startling custom of the time, to pour 
boiling oil or water by way of welcome. And in one 
place, through a hole in the ground, we were shown 
the bottom of that very oubliette whose entrance I 
had seen above. Into the well "Ma Tante" threw a 
lighted paper, and we saw that the hole grew into a 
broad pit as it descended. The flames lighted up the 
rough walls, till fifty feet below appeared a circular 
dungeon, and on the floor what Mathurin declared were 
human bones. I shuddered ! 

" Mais, Madame, what would you," exclaimed Tante 
Angelique. " To each century its mode ! It was the 
fashion in those days ! " 

We took la bonne tante back with us in the automobile, 
much to her delight, and by way of recompense she went 
with us to the Basilica of Saint Julien, and told us the 
story of the young soldier-martyr. 

The church is one of the finest examples of what is 
called Roman-Byzantine- Auvergnat architecture, the most 
interesting of all styles to the photographer and the 



156 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

archaeologist. There, as Dominique Branche says, you 
will find " flowers which no land has ever been able to 
produce, and creatures still more extraordinary, blossoming 
and amusing themselves over the walls. All the lavas 
our soil produces have lent the monks their greys and 
blacks, their reds and whites. This splendid covering of 
many-coloured mosaic, clothes the outer walls of the apse, 
and hangs like a veil of Syrian embroidery above the 
entrances." Through the great south porch with its 
curious squat pillars, we followed our guide, and when she 
had paid her devotions at the shrine, listened to the story 
she had to tell. 

It was on the 28th of August 403 that a troop of Roman 
soldiers beheaded Saint Julien in the little village of 
Vinicelle, to-day called Saint-Ferreol, in memory of Julien's 
friend and master. It happened that the place was quite 
deserted, the peasants being all away down by the Allier, 
where a f£te was being held in honour of Mars and Mercury, 
the tutelary gods of the place. No one was by save two 
shepherds, Ilpize and Arcons, who, being old and unable 
to leave their sheep, had remained behind. They were 
ignorant peasants, probably pagans, but good and honest) 
and to them God made known the murder of the saint, 
bidding them go and bury him in Brioude. It was two 
good kilometres from the place where they found the still 
bleeding body, and much they wondered how they were to 
carry the burden, so old they were and so feeble. But 
suddenly as they tried to raise the saint, their limbs 
became strong, the blood flowed freshly through their 
veins, and the two old men found themselves once more 
in their early manhood. The first thing they did was to 
bear their sacred burden to Brioude and bury it, and at 
sight of these two ancient creatures so youthful and strong, 



BRIOUDE 157 

pilgrims began to flock to the grave, and to the fountain 
where the body had been washed, hoping no doubt to find 
a like restoration to youth. So Ilpize and Arcons made 
up their minds to settle down as guardians of the sacred 
body, and took up their abode close by. For long years 
they remained serving God, ministering to the poor pilgrims, 
and beautifying as well as they could the tomb. At last 
one day there arrived a great Spanish lady, bringing her 
husband, who was afflicted with some grievous disease. 
Happily the prayers of the living saints, and the sanctity 
of the dead, to say nothing of the faith of the patient, were 
effectual, and out of gratitude the Spaniards raised the 
first chapel to Saint Julien. It stood, not where the 
present basilica stands, but about two leagues distant, 
at Old Brioude. It was there, on the banks of the Allier, 
that the shepherds had buried the saint, and probably it 
was on the site of the little temple to Mars and Mercury, 
that the Spaniards raised the first chapel to the soldier- 
martyr. Vieille Brioude has long been eclipsed by 
her daughter town, in point of size and importance, for 
after the destruction of the original church by the Sara- 
cens, the remains of Saint Julien, together with those 
of his faithful shepherds, were removed further from the 
river, and the pilgrims forsook the old tomb for the 
new, so that monasteries sprang up, and trade gathered 
round the shrine, which soon became the nucleus of a 
large and prosperous town. But it is to old Brioude 
we must go to discover the origin of its name. Brioude 
or Brivas is a Celtic word meaning a bridge, and at 
Vieille Brioude we shall find the remains of a very 
interesting structure. 

Flumen Aler, as the Romans called the river, here enters 
an inaccessible gorge which extends for many miles. If, 



158 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

therefore, the people of Brioude wished to cross from one 
side to the other, they must do so here. And, in effect, 
just at this particular spot, the rocks stand face to face like 
the piles of a gigantic bridge. So from very ancient times 
Vieille Brioude was the crossing place of a river, and as 
such became an important centre of trade and commerce. 
It was there that the people from either side held markets, 
and where there is a market there must be a worship- 
ping place, in which to return thanks for business trans- 
acted. Besides there was always the old river deity, of 
whom I have already spoken, to be reckoned with. And so 
shortly, there arose beside the bridge, a temple dedicated 
to Mars, the god of war, cattle, and commerce ; and Mercury, 
who, according to some people, was merely a later imper- 
sonation of the same divinity. At the fete held annually 
in honour of the god, a horse was sacrificed, whose head, 
washed and decorated with a string of loaves, was sent to 
the chief, and it is curious to note that the emblem of the 
soldier-saint, who replaced the heathen god, was a sword, 
and a head surrounded by rays of glory (Julien's head of 
course, which, washed and decorated, was sent to his friend 
and master at Vienne) ; curious too that the tribute offered 
every year to the King of France by the Count- Abbots of 
Brioude was a horse ! 

Speaking of the Abbot of Brioude reminds us of that 
remarkable person, who in early days ruled over his fifty- 
four canons like a little king. Later the canons themselves 
aspired to the title of count, and no less than twenty-two 
of them figure as such in the annals of Brioude. They 
moreover held the rank of bishops, officiating in violet robes 
and wearing the cross and mitre, enjoying feudal rights, 
and leaving the duty of praising God to the almoner and 
eighteen inferior canons. Of course they were all nobles 



VIEILLE BRIOUDE 159 

of the highest rank, the King of France himself being an 
honorary member of the fraternity, and having a stall 
assigned him in the basilica. 

But let us return to Vieille Brioude and visit the famous 
bridge, or rather its grandson. 

The first viaduct was no doubt a very primitive affair, a 
thing of wooden beams. It had its day and ceased to be, 
and no vestige of it remains. 

On the cliff above the river was a castle, and in the castle 
dwelt a lady called Marie Louise de Dombes, who had a 
great devotion to the soldier-saint who had replaced the 
heathen gods of her ancestors. The old bridge having 
fallen into disuse, she determined to build another, in order 
that the peasants on the farther side of the river, might 
attend divine service in the church which had arisen at 
Vieille Brioude. 

The bridge is described as a curious structure, too narrow 
and too steep for carts to pass. The good lady was 
apparently not very free with her money, for when the 
building was finished, and it only remained to insert the 
keystone and remove the centering, the workmen found 
that they could not get their pay. So they struck, and left 
in a body. Now it was, as I have said, a very peculiar 
bridge, and no one dared to finish it, feeling sure that it 
would fall. So there it remained, a regular White Elephant 
to the Lady of Dombes, who grew so tired of the eyesore, 
that she kept offering higher and higher rewards for anyone 
who would complete the work. At last one day came a 
poor man to the castle. 

" I am a builder," said he, " and I am poor. My life is 
worth little to me as it is. Give me the money, and I will 
strike the centering." 

It was no use bargaining, the lady had to pay. You can 



i6o AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

guess the result. The stranger was the master-builder him- 
self! Going to the middle of his bridge, he slipped 
in the keystone which he had ready, and a few moments 
later, the wooden framework was washing down the 
Allier! 

And now there is a third bridge at Old Brioude, a broad, 
handsome, stone viaduct, which even the car had no diffi- 
culty in crossing. But the pilgrims pass on through the 
village to the modern town beyond, where we shall still find 
the sculptured stall, where the King of France used to sit 
when he paid a visit to the shrine : and there we shall be 
shown the tombs of the Christian saint of war, and his de- 
voted missionaries, Ilpize and Arcons. Tante Angelique 
and the good Mathurin had exhibited these things and 
many more, when the former asked me to follow her to 
the side-chapel of Saint Martin. 

" It is here," she said, " that they buried the holy 
goose-girl of Allvier. As the village is near to La 
Mothe, I never fail to visit her tomb when I am in 
Brioude." 

And as we stood in the dim twilight of the chapel 
she told me the story of the saint, using almost the 
same words as the monk of Pebrac did three hundred 
years ago. 

" Every day when she was feeding her geese beside the 
river, she would leave them in the care of God, and, rowing 
across the water, would make her way to Brioude to visit 
the shrine of the holy Julien, for whom she had so singular 
a devotion." 

It appears, however, that once after a great rain she found 
it impossible to pass to the other side. 

" But," says Jacques Branche, " God sent His angel, who 
dried up the waters of the Allier, so that Saint Bonnite 



SAINT BONNITE 161 

went over dry shod. Many saw her, so that the news of the 
miracle spread. And she became a saint, taking up her 
abode beside the tomb, where she remained till the day of 
her death, when her bones were buried here, close to those 
of her master, Saint Julien." 



CHAPTER IX 

Le Puy — A Night Visit — The Druidical Stone — The Legend of Saint 
Georges — The Cathedral — The Black Virgin of Saint Louis — Royal 
Pilgrims — Adhemar du Monteil and the Salve Regina — The Revolution 
at Le Puy — Burning of the Black Virgin — The Chapel of Saint Michel 
— Church of Saint Laurent — Tomb of Bertrand du Guesclin — Polignac 
— The Castle and its Story — The Oracle of Apollo 

WHEN, forty-five years after the birth of Christ, Saint 
Peter sent out his bishops to Christianize Gaul, 
Saint Georges and Saint Front set forth together, for were 
they not friends ! They had scarcely been travelling three 
days when Georges, seized with sudden illness, died, and 
Front, inconsolable, returned to the apostle, who, giving 
him his pastoral staff, told him to lay it on the tomb of his 
companion, when, like a second Lazarus, he would arise. 
And it was so ! 

The journey so inauspiciously begun, turned out happily : 
the saints continued their interrupted travels, Georges 
settling at a town called Ruessium, now known as Saint- 
Paulien, and Front going on to Perigueux. The story of 
the miracle must be true, for half the staff is still to be seen 
at Le Puy in the house of Les Dames de lTnstruction ! 
As for Georges, he began a battle with the powers of dark- 
ness which lasted the rest of his life, and the success of 
which is marked by that wonder of wonders, the church of 
Notre Dame du Puy. 

The district where he had settled was a great centre of 
Sun-worship. Everywhere there were temples to Apollo; 



SAINT-PAULIEN 163 

one of the most noted being that of Ruessium. The pagan 
priests naturally resented the coming of this young man, 
who, with the enthusiasm and fearlessness which marked 
the early missionaries of Christianity, began teaching in 
the public streets, rousing the people to a sense of the 
falseness and inadequacy of their religion. At last one 
day, as he was preaching in front of the very temple 
itself, he was seized, stoned, dragged in the mud, almost 
murdered. Escaping, he rushed into the temple for 
sanctuary, when the demons with which the place was 
rilled, crying out in terror, quitted the statues in which 
they were enshrined, and under the form of horrible 
black shadows spitting out fire and brimstone, rushed 
with frightful howlings out of the building. Such, 
according to tradition, was the exorcism of the demons 
of Ruessium. So Georges was left in possession of the 
temple, which he purified and dedicated to God, under the 
invocation of Notre Dame du Haut Solier, which I take 
to mean Our Lady of the Sun at Midday. It was the 
introduction of Christianity into Velay, as testifies an 
ancient Sanctoral of the church of Our Lady of Puy, which 
contains these words, " On your knees, oh people of Velay, 
honour Mary the Mother of God, whom Georges, your first 
pastor, taught you to revere." 

Now at some little distance from Ruessium lay a strange 
unfrequented valley, haunted by memories of even blacker 
demons than those which Georges had exorcized from 
Ruessium. Here and there, emerging above the thick 
forests with which the valley was covered, were steep cones 
of rock, for all the world like vast Cyclopean altars. The 
same thought seems to have struck the priests who 
ministered to the wild inhabitants of the valley, for from 
earliest time there was a sanctuary on each of these heights, 



1 64 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

a sanctuary which possibly marked the resting-place of 
some prehistoric chief. 

Of all these weird cones of rock, Mount Anis is" the 
most important. On its summit was placed the mighty 
dolmen upon which from time immemorial sacrifices had 
been offered to the virgin who should bear a son. To-day 
the valley is filled with the cheerful habitations of men, 
covered with vineyards and cornfields. But two thousand 
years ago it was full of the silence of the forests, whose 
mysteries and horrors had to be braved e'er one could 
reach the temple on the height, where stood the Sacred 
Stone. 

It was on this stone a widow woman was lying, afflicted 
with rheumatic fever, when the Blessed Virgin appeared, 
telling her of Her wish to have a Christian sanctuary 
raised on Mount Anis. If you have been to Le Puy 
you will have heard the story. How waking and finding 
herself cured of her fever, she hastened to Ruessium and 
found Georges, the bishop, to whom she reported the 
miracle. Then back they travelled to the sacred mountain 
to find, oh ! wondrous sight ! the whole summit of the rock 
covered with snow, though it was a hot day in July. And 
as they gazed in wonder, behold a stag sprang cut from 
the thicket, and leaping round the edge of the rock on the 
centre of which lay the stone, vanished, leaving his foot- 
marks in the snow. It was a sign, and Georges, too poor 
to build a church, dared not disregard it. So he planted 
a hawthorn hedge round the holy place, following the 
footmarks left by the mysterious stag. Next morning the 
snow had gone, but round the summit of the mountain 
was a crown of snowy hawthorn. It was enough ! From 
henceforth the place was sacred to the Virgin, and when 
Saint Martial came to consecrate it, he brought with him 



THE DRUID STONE OF MOUNT ANIS 165 

as a gift a shoe of " La Bonne Dame " herself, which is 
still to be seen in the treasury. 

Time went on. Saint Georges went to his rest, and a 
long line of Bishops of Velay followed him. The haw- 
thorn hedge had grown into a grove, sheltering the pious 
pilgrims who still went to pass the night upon the Sacred 
Stone. 

In the year 350 once more the Virgin appeared, this 
time to a paralytic lady. Waking, and finding herself 
cured, she naturally sought her bishop, a rich man of the 
name of Vosy, and it was by his energy that the first 
Christian church was raised on Mount Anis. Later the 
bishopric itself was removed from Ruessium to Le Puy, 
as the district began to be called, and after that the 
history of Velay centred round the new Cathedral of 
Saint Vosy. 

I know of no spot where one can better study the 
evolution of religion than on this ancient high-place. 
True, the great stone has been removed from its original 
position in front of the high altar, and now lies just inside 
the porch at the top of the grand staircase. But even 
there people still come to lie upon it, and it has a special 
altar of its own, decorated with flowers brought by humble 
worshippers, while below, on the step leading to it, are 
carved the words: Plebs HAC Rupe Sita fit Sana 
SOPORE POTILA. Si QU^RAS QUARE VlRTUS ABSCRI- 
BITUR Ar;E. 

And when you have knelt and made your prayer on the 
stone, you ascend to the Lady of the Stone, the Mother of 
Health and Healing. A beautiful symbol, is it not, the 
Druid altar a Marche Pied leading to the Virgin herself? 
The old religion conducting to the new. 

We arrived late at Le Puy, and put up at the only 



1 66 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

decent inn, the Grand Hotel. It is a quaint rambling 
old place, the rooms all opening on to the same side of a 
long courtyard, where you may sit, surrounded by dogs, 
and watch your dinner being cooked in the copper-hung 
kitchen, while you dream of the days when the stables 
were full of post horses. They are silent now, save for 
the occasional hoot of an automobile. But on the whole 
it is a pleasant quiet place, well in keeping with the 
ghostly old town. 

After dinner we wandered out, and soon lost ourselves 
among the dark maze of narrow streets which lead upward 
toward the church. As we drew nearer, the road grew 
steeper and steeper, till at last it broke into a huge stairway 
up which we climbed toward the cathedral looming above 
in the darkness. Formerly these steps continued ascending 
under the porch, and through the nave, right to the foot 
of the altar, where they ended, and the pilgrim found 
himself standing on the mysterious stone, gazing up at the 
no less mysterious statue of the Black Virgin. But the 
priests found it difficult to conduct divine service by reason 
of the swarms of sick folk who came to lie on the stone. 
They had it removed, therefore, to the centre of the 
church, and later, to the position it now occupies just 
within the shelter of the porch. As for the staircase, it 
still ends at the stone, for the nave has been floored, and 
is like the naves of other churches, which is to be infinitely 
deplored from an archaeological point of view. 

During the latter part of our climb, we had gradually 
become more and more conscious of a low growling, or 
roaring, coming from the church. As we entered the 
black shadow of the porch it sounded so loud and sinister, 
that I instinctively drew back ; it made me think of those 
demons exorcised by Saint Georges at Ruessium. 



MOUNT ANIS 167 

"It is no use going farther now!" said I hurriedly; 
" we shall see nothing if we do. We will come again by 
daylight." So we turned, and made our way round the 
winding walls, whose irregular outline still reminds one of 
the track left by the leaping stag, to the little terrace in 
front of the Bishop's Palace, where is the wonderful south 
porch. And there we stood gazing down at the twinkling 
lights of Puy, picturing Vosy and Scutaire setting forth 
for Rome, to obtain from the Pope permission to consecrate 
the first church. 

Down by the river, lights are gleaming in the windows 
of Le Petit Seminaire de la Chartreuse. It was just there 
that the bishop and his chaplain met the two mysterious 
old men, bearing in their hands the precious relics destined 
for the altar ; and heard how the consecration was to be 
performed the next day by angels. It was so dark and 
silent up there on the Mount, and the memories thronged 
so thickly round me, that I could almost fancy I heard 
the bells " ringing of themselves " as they did that day ; 
and as I turned to look up at the church, I half expected 
to find the doors opened by invisible hands, and the 
windows ablaze with candles and flaming torches. 

But the days of such marvels are over. They ended 
when, on January the nineteenth 1794, the miraculous 
statue was torn from the niche above the altar, and 
burned by the Republicans in the Place du Martouret. 

When next morning we once more climbed Mount Anis, 
we found the stairway less formidable. White-capped 
women were sitting at their doors, busy with their lace 
pillows, and the clicking of innumerable bobbins filled the 
air with cheerful life. Within the porch, an old woman 
had established herself and her stall for the day, and as I 
looked over her stock-in-trade, we fell into conversation, 



168 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

and I asked her what the noise which I had heard the night 
before could possibly have been. 

" Eh ! Eh !" she exclaimed in a vexed tone, " I'll wager 
it is that old Eusebe again ! I must tell Monsieur the Mayor 
of it ! It is unbearable." 

She went on to explain that an old beggar man 
persisted in sleeping every night on La Pierre Sacree. 
What for? But for his rheumatism naturally. Still it 
must be stopped. He was too dirty. Other pilgrims 
complained that they caught fleas and sometimes even 
worse. Besides, he was rich, he had 600 francs a year ! 
Why not hire a mattress ? 

" He should go to the hospital ! " said I. 

" But, Madame, assuredly he has been, oh ! many times ! 
Yet he always returns to the stone. And he has reason. 
Nothing else relieves the pain. Only he should have 
consideration for others and wash himself once a 
week." 

I found this old woman so interesting, that I used to come 
and talk to her whenever I could make time, and it was 
from her that I learned a good many legends of the church 
of Le Puy. She told me that it was her great-uncle, 
Monsieur Portallier, who saved the priests at the time of 
the Revolution. 

" I wish he had saved the old statue ! " said I. 

" Ah, Madame," she exclaimed, " what a misfortune ! La 
Belle Dame Noire brought by Saint Louis himself from 
Egypt ! But there is consolation in the thought that the 
devotion offered to Notre Dame du Puy has attached 
tself to the new statue no less than to the old. It is 
indeed so exact a copy that it would be difficult to tell 
the difference." 

It seems that when Louis the Ninth was on his way to 



NOTRE DAME DU PUY 169 

Palestine to join the Crusade, he was taken prisoner by the 
Sultan of Egypt. While waiting for his ransom to be sent 
from France, the young king took the opportunity of seeing 
some of the wonders of the country, and amongst other 
things was shown, in one of the temples, a mysterious black 
statue representing a mother and child. It was regarded 
with the greatest veneration by the Egyptians, and was 
undoubtedly an image of Isis and her son Horus. The 
Christian king, however, being no Egyptologist, had never 
heard of Isis. To him any statue of a mother and child 
stood for the Blessed Virgin, and as such he adored it. 
At last, the ransom paid, he found himself free to leave 
Egypt, and was invited by the Sultan, after the Oriental 
fashion, to choose a gift to take with him. When, however, 
he mentioned the sacred image, the Sultan hesitated. But 
his word had been given, and Louis sailed off with the 
little black statue of Isis packed away in his ship. I 
don't know whether it was during the voyage that the 
Christian legend of her origin was evolved, but when 
later he brought her to Le Puy and set her up over 
the altar, he told the story of her having been carved 
by the Prophet Jeremiah, when, after the conquest of 
Jerusalem, he fled down into Egypt. Kings and queens 
came to visit her in her new abode. Copies were made 
and taken to distant churches, where they were reverenced 
under the name of Notre Dame du Puy — we find various 
examples, one most remarkable, in the museum of 
Clermont. 

As we entered the church, we found that a funeral was 
in progress, a humble affair. The sight of the plain deal 
coffin, surrounded by tall candles, in front of La Vierge 
Noire, set me thinking. How beautiful is this Evolution 



170 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

of Religion, the new faith founded on and rooted in the 
old ! Here were represented no less than four creeds. 
First the Black Virgin herself, succeeding the earlier 
Mother, both looking down upon the old sacrificial stone 
of Druid and pre-Druid times, and in the midst the Dead, 
object of the earliest of all cults. 

The church of Le Puy is indeed a most wonderful 
building, full of endless surprises, and interesting mementos 
of the past. Beneath the tower are sculptured stones, 
remnants of the Roman temple which once stood on 
Mount Anis, with bas-reliefs which, if we only knew, 
might throw some light on the legend of the leaping stag. 
Here too is the tomb of some noble pilgrim kneeling in 
adoration before the statue of the Virgin. 

Until some few years ago there was an even more 
interesting relic, an old calvary, the carved pedestal of 
which was still more ancient. Every year, at the feast of 
the Dedication of Our Lady, the clergy of the church used 
to go to this place to celebrate the victory of Christianity. 
On the stone they set a little choir boy, who gave three 
blasts on a hunting-horn made of terra-cotta, just as the 
priest of the Druids is said to have stood on the same 
stone, blowing his horn to call the worshippers to the 
sacrifice. 

The Sacristan was a friendly soul, letting us go where 
we would, and photograph freely. He took us up to the 
roof, insisting on my climbing ladders the very sight of 
which made me sick and giddy, and pointed out the 
demons whose misshapen stone bodies help to buttress the 
central tower. He showed us the room where the great 
Charlemagne played chess with the Saracen Prince of 
Lourdes, Mirat, and told me how he had refused to deliver 
up his castle to the Emperor himself, but came hither and 




THE CLOISTER OF NOTRE DAME DU PUY 



CATHEDRAL OF LE PUY 171 

gave it to the Black Virgin, who was then ruling at Le 
Puy. On the wall is a very old fresco, showing the two 
seated at their game. 

We wandered with the Sacristan through the cloisters, 
and heard about the early bishops, whose statues adorn the 
walls, and in the museum saw the portraits and other 
votive offerings given by noble pilgrims. One struck me 
as very curious, it was the picture of a nun supping in quite 
a friendly way with Saint Joseph, and an exact represent- 
ation of the Black Virgin herself. Indeed, when at last 
our guide invited us to rest in the old chamber he in- 
habited, my head was in a whirl. I looked round at the 
heavy beams and vast chimney. " Do you ever hear 
Charlemagne and the Saracen prince quarrelling in the 
room above ? " I asked. 

The Sacristan smiled indulgently and shook his head. 

" No, Madame ! " said he. " Fortunately the phantoms 
of the past agree very well at Le Puy." 

" That is good," I remarked, " for there must be many 
who certainly did not agree in life ! " and I sat thinking of 
some of the scenes of which I had been hearing. There 
was the story of the little singing boy murdered by the 
Jews, and recalled to life through the devotion he bore to 
Notre Dame du Puy. We know the legend from the 
ancient picture and the verse : 

" Un enfant de Choeur a chante, 
Que Gabriel bonne nouvelle 
En Nazareth nous a porte : 
Un Juif le tue, et la Pucelle 
Marie la resuscite.' 

And then I thought of the little Agnes, who out of love 
for the Virgin, put an iron chain round her poor little waist, 
which she wore for seven years ; till as she grew the links 



172 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

ate their way into her flesh, and when she took it off at 
last and presented it on the altar, it made a mark of blood 
where she laid it. 

Then I fell to picturing the royal pilgrims who had come 
to Le Puy : Charlemagne himself, not as he is represented 
in legend, with a great beard, and robes heavy with 
precious stones, the orb in one hand and the sceptre in the 
other, a most impossible arrangement, but a tall, bull- 
necked man, with the round head, large bright eyes, and 
long hair and moustache of the Frank, dressed in a linen 
shirt and short furred tunic. He introduces us to his five 
unmarried daughters, and to his unfortunate son Louis le 
Debonnaire, who came here with his wicked and fascinat- 
ing wife Judith and their little son Charles la Frise. And 
Charles comes here again when he has lost his golden hair 
and is called Charles the Bald. And we meet the mad 
king, Charles the Sixth, who came hoping to be healed of 
his delirium. Here he sat in the cathedral, and to him 
the people thronged to be touched for the king's evil. 
And Charles the Seventh came five times, bringing 
standards he had taken from the English ; and the 
mother of Jeanne d'Arc arrived one day, praying for the 
success of her daughter. Louis the Eleventh too, we may 
be sure, made the pilgrimage more than once, and his 
son Charles the Eighth, and the magnificent Francis, and 
even John Stuart, Regent of Scotland. But the real hero 
of Le Puy is Adhemar du Monteil. 

Do you remember a Bishop of Le Puy, who, after hearing 
the rousing words of Peter the Hermit at Clermont, fell at 
the feet of Pope Urban II., and joined the First Crusade? 
That was Adhemar du Monteil. And he did not stop 
with the dedication of himself. I should like to have 
been present at the sermon he preached in the Cathedral 



ADHEMAR DU MONTEIL 173 

of Le Puy on the Sunday after his return from Clermont. 
He must have been a great personality. They say that 
the number of converts he made was so great, that all the 
red material to be found in the town was used up for 
making crosses. Of the warriors who started on that 
Crusade, between four and five thousand came from the 
diocese of Adhemar du Monteil. And when the day of 
departure arrived, what a sight it must have been. There, 
in the great church which we know so well, were gathered 
the soldiers of the Red Cross, their beloved Bishop at 
their head. Standing on the ancient stone of the Druids, 
he spoke his last few stirring words of encouragement 
and farewell to those who were to be left behind. Then 
turning to the east, where above the altar sat that most 
mysterious image, that first Virgin of Le Puy of which 
we know nothing, save that it was probably the statue of 
the original Druidic goddess of Mount Anis, the Bishop 
raised his hand, and for the first time was heard the hymn : 

" Salve, Regina, Mater misericordiae, vita, dulcedo et spes nostra 
salve ! " 

Listen ! it is the new anthem composed for the occasion 
by Bishop Adhemar. I wonder how many of the millions 
of Catholics who sing this hymn have ever heard of its 
author? And now, down the great stairway leading from 
the altar, and so out under the porch, pours the living 
stream of warriors. And the bells are ringing, and 
every one is shouting, save a few women who weep : 

" O clemens, O Pia, 
O dulcis Virgo Maria ! " 

And it is the whole city that answers : 

" Ora pro nobis, sancta Dei genitrix. 
Ut digni emciamur promissionibus Christi ! " 



174 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

As 1 picture the soldiers, the banners, the ringing, the 
enthusiasm, the song, and even the weeping, another scene 
rises before me of a great Northern cathedral, crowded 
with singing troops, clad in khaki : 

" Fight the good fight w ith all thy might, 
Christ is thy Strength, and Christ thy Right." 

It is the City Imperial Volunteers. To-morrow they 
Start for South Africa. The clear, manly voices of the 
young soldiers swell and vibrate through the nave and 
transepts, mingling with the echoes of the vaults below, 
and soaring up into the misty dome. 

But I am forgetting. It is of Le Puy we are speaking, 
not of Saint Paul's Cathedral ; and there are still so many 
stories to tell of Le Puy. Come with me to the Bishop's 
Palace. 

There, in 1 572, we might have seen a most wonderful 
sight. Letters have been sent to every town in France 
by His Catholic Majesty, King Charles IX. They have 
arrived at Le Puy, a great Huguenot centre, and the good 
Bishop Senectere has passed a troubled day. At last, 
however, his mind is made up, and he sends round to all 
the Protestants in his diocese, summoning them to the 
palace on Sunday, the twenty-fourth of August, the Day 
of Saint Bartholomew. There they assembled, probably 
on the little terrace in front of the entrance gates, wonder- 
ing, no doubt, why they had been called, and perhaps 
trembling a little, for most of them had been concerned 
in the plot to deliver up the town to the Huguenots. 
Presently the old man appeared, a letter in his hand. 
We know its contents, and can guess how the crowd felt 
when that death-warrant was read to them. 

" Now," said the Bishop, " you have heard the king's 
command. I have disobeyed it. What am I to do?" 



FOURTEENTH OF JULY 175 

It is said that they were so touched by his noble 
and generous conduct, that with one voice they abjured 
their heresy, and were re-admitted to their hereditary 
faith. 

On our second evening at Lc Puy there were fire- 
works in front of the Hotel de Ville, and bands and 
dancing, for it was the fourteenth of July, when all good 
Frenchmen feel especially bound to let themselves go. 

For an hour or more we stood waiting, squeezed into 
a vast compact human mass. But no one grumbled, 
save one old woman, who uttered a mild protest when 
I inadvertently trod on her ; she explained that she 
had a most effroyable corn, or she would not have 
minded. And when the rockets began to soar, and the 
roman-candles to spout forth flames and balls of fire, 
what exclamations of delight ! The last was a set 
piece representing the Republic, in red, white, and blue, 
surrounded by showers of golden rain, flames, bangs, 
bouquets of rockets, and falling stars. As an old 
woman beside me, not she of the corn, remarked : 
" You would have said the world was coming to an 
end ! But what of that ! Vive la Republique ! " She 
had evidently seen many of these fetes, and was some- 
what critical, inclined to sniff at the number of rockets, 
and wonder whether the set pieces cost as much as they 
did last year. However, this last piece staggered her, 
and she went off with that self-satisfied expression which 
French people wear at such times. For their attitude is 
somewhat different to that of an English crowd, when 
looking on at an entertainment provided by the authorities. 
In France, the poorest beggar present regards himself as 
one of the authorities 5 therefore, in a way, responsible. 



176 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

The whole thing belongs to him, is got up by him. He, 
in fact, is the Republic. 

And now they are gone. I can hear the laugh of 
the last band of orderly roysterers dying away in the 
distance. The cafes have taken in their green tables 
and chairs and closed their doors. The myriads of gas- 
jets outlining the Hotel de Ville have been extinguished, 
leaving it black and sombre like a great tomb. As I 
look at it, my thoughts fly back more than four hundred 
years to that terrible outbreak of plague which devastated 
Le Puy in 1482. All the crops had been destroyed by a 
fearful tempest, and famine had been at work, weakening 
the wretched inhabitants of Velay. So, when Madame 
La Peste arrived, she found a goodly meal awaiting 
her. More than eighteen thousand dead bodies are 
said to have been cast pell-mell into the trenches, which 
were open in the Place du Martouret, just where to-day 
stands the handsome town-hall. Finding such good 
entertainment, the dreadful visitor came again and again, 
and it was always in the Place du Martouret that the 
greater number of her victims were laid. And at every 
visit there came out to meet her the valiant Black 
Virgin, borne by her band of devoted clergy. My 
old friend at the cathedral told me that La Peste 
never failed to fly at sight of La Bonne Dame Noire. 
But as I thought of the number of her victims, it 
seemed that she left rather from satiety than fear! 

Indeed, what has not this great Place seen ? During the 
Wars of the League it was used as the place of execution, 
and many a time the old chapel of Saint Michel has looked 
down on rows of corpses swinging to and fro in the night 
breeze. But it is when we come to the time of the great 
Revolution, that the Place du Martouret showed itself most 




AN ANCIENT STATUE OF NOTRE DAME DU PUY 



REVOLUTION AT LE PUY 177 

useful. Here was gathered the vast crowd to see Monsieur 
l'Abbe de Lavinhac, the renegade monk, celebrate the Mass, 
at which all the clergy were commanded to assist, wearing 
the tricolour. It must have been an extraordinary sight. 
Round the temporary altar were gathered the Republican 
soldiers, and the whole square was filled with a shouting 
mob. Even at the most solemn moment there was the 
greatest difficulty in restraining the cries, and no sooner 
had the monk ended the mock office, than there were storms 
of: Vive la nation! Vive laloi! Vive la liberte ! 
And as the priests came up one by one to take the oath 
of fidelity to the government, which was trampling under- 
foot everything they held sacred, drums and trumpets 
blazed out, and every eye was fixed upon them, to see 
whether or no they passed the ordeal like good patriots. 
And, finally, it was here that, on the 19th of January 
1794, that ancient statue was brought, the Black Virgin 
who for so long had ruled for their good the people 
of Le Puy. Her golden robe had been stripped from 
her, and the wooden figure could be seen, the Mother 
seated on a kind of footstool, with her Son on her knees. 
And because they were Egyptian, they were represented 
bound about like mummies, the wrappings surrounding 
even the faces, hands, and feet Painted they were, in a 
strange uncouth fashion, with symbols and hieroglyphics 
traced in gold and gems. And whatever we may think 
of such statues, it must have been a terrible sight to see 
this mysterious image, which for 539 years had attracted 
pilgrims from all over Europe, and which had also for 
untold ages been an object of love and adoration to an 
earlier people, insulted, spit upon by the yelling mob, and 
finally, burned within sight of the Cathedral which for so 
long had been its home. 



178 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

Ah, well, it is over! Those first turbulent days of the 
Republic have given place to the quiet orderly France of 
to-day. Even the red lanterns have burned themselves out, 
and I am left alone, with the great Virgin of France look- 
ing down from the summit of the Rocher de Corneille, and 
above her the stars. 

But how am I to tell all the story of Le Puy ? When I 
came to this chapter I said to myself, It will be the best of 
all ! I will show them the old valley, the strange cones 
rising in every direction, each crowned with its ancient 
worshipping place. I will take them up the 162 steps to 
the top of the Rock Aiguilhe, and visit the astounding 
chapel of Saint Michel, a growth rather than a building, 
for one can scarcely tell where rock ends and chapel begins. 
We will walk over the floor, which indeed is but the levelled 
top of the peak, and examine the low basalt columns, with 
weirdly carved capitals on a level with one's face. Then, 
if they are not giddy, they shall look down from the battle- 
mented walls, and I will tell them the story of the girl who 
threw herself over, to escape the attentions of a soldier, and 
who was caught in the air by invisible hands, and gently 
lowered to the foot of the rock. And on the way back we 
will look in at the old Temple of Diana, and watch the lace- 
makers who always sit grouped around it, their tongues 
wagging to the clicking of their bobbins. In any case we 
must visit the church of Saint Laurent, for there, close beside 
the altar, we shall find the tomb of a very old Breton friend, 
Bertrand du Guesclin, Constable of France. There he lies, 
or rather some of him, for the greater part of his body, 
having been embalmed, was, according to Froissart, taken 
to Saint Denis, and buried at the foot of the tomb his 
master King Charles V. had raised for himself. The church, 




THE DOORWAY OF THE CHAPEL OF ST. MICHEL 



POLIGNAC 179 

as we pass out of the sunlight, seems very dark, and we 
must wait a little before we can see the short burly figure, 
with the shield worn low on the left thigh, the folded hands, 
and large square head, with its crop of short curly hair. 
His beard and moustache too are closely cut, leaving the 
mouth, evidently his only beauty, exposed. 

About three miles' walk over the hills lies the village of 
Polignac, where may still be seen the ruins of the ancient 
castle of that name. 

It was a lovely day. We had been breakfasting in front 
of the hotel, close to the kitchen door, in company with 
the mastiff puppy and his mamma, a flock of tame pigeons, 
a grey parrot, several furtive cats, a cageful of chattering 
canaries, and five monkeys, whose comic faces and thin 
side whiskers, reminded me of certain mountain cowherds 
I had seen in Cantal. 

Outside the door of the bureau, a few paces farther down 
the yard, sat Madame, her lace pillow on her knees, busily 
at work. Every one makes lace at Le Puy ; from dawn to 
dusk the air is full of the sound of the clicking of bob- 
bins. But as a rule Madame is too busy with other 
things to click, and only takes up her pillow pour se dis- 
traite, as she explains. Perhaps the untiring activity of 
Madame's agile fingers made me ashamed of my laziness, 
at all events I suggested at last that we should go for 
a walk. 

"Where?" inquired my husband. 

But before I had time to answer, Madame intervened. 

" Ah, Monsieur, go to Polignac, I counsel you. Ma foi ! 
one has seen nothing till one has seen Polignac ! " 

We were so fortunate as to fall in with the postman, who, 
as he was going our way, took us a short cut over the 



180 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

saddle of hill which divides the valley of Le Puy from that 
of Polignac. 

The path led through vineyards green with the freshness 
of early summer, while overhead the sky blazed down like 
a living sapphire. We had just passed through a tiny 
village called Monotaire, when, at the culminating point of 
the path we came to a calvary, on the steps of which several 
black-robed sisters had seated themselves. I can see them 
now, those gentle faces, and meek inquiring eyes, the 
snowy coifs flapping in the breeze like the wings of great 
white birds, the ancient cross outlined against the sky ; 
and beyond, like the landscape of some Pre-Raphaelite 
painter, the broad valley of Polignac, with, in the mid 
distance, its vast cube of basalt, crowned by the ruined 
castle. I did not like to disturb the good women, for their 
lips were moving, and each was telling her beads. But 
just as I was going off, the eldest spoke to me, asking if I 
were not English. Then I sat by them a little and talked, 
letting my eyes wander over the landscape. It seemed that 
they had been obliged by the government to leave their 
home, situated somewhere in the valley, and were on their 
way to seek another, probably, like so many of their order, 
in our country. It seemed hard, for most of them were 
old, and would find it difficult to accustom themselves to 
foreign surroundings. But the word had gone forth, and 
so they were looking their last on this land, which was, for 
some of them, the only one they knew. The simple story, 
told without apparent feeling of resentment, gave a new 
significance to the landscape. How many people in former 
days, turned from their homes by the race of brigands 
who once dwelt in that castle on the rock, had from this 
very spot gazed their last on their native land ? As I 
looked at the Sisters, I wondered what they were thinking 



POLIGNAC 181 

about, these childlike souls? Did the valley signify to 
them life, with its few joys and many troubles, and the 
distant hills that Paradise where alone they might find 
happiness ? 

At last we rose, wished them well, and began making 
our way down the hill. Then began a series of pictures 
for which the plates in our camera were all too few. Here, 
a fair-haired girl, far too pretty to have come of a race of 
peasants, and mounted astride on a mare, was driving the 
cows home to be milked. There, in a hayfield, the great 
cream-coloured oxen were taking their midday meal. And 
at the cottage doors what groups of old women, wearing 
the preposterous little dolls' hats of Velay, set on top of 
their caps ! But I dare say they thought our costume just 
as funny, for they looked at us in our tweeds as though we 
were some wild animals escaped from the Jardin des Plantes ! 

At the Cafe Restaurant we lunched, assisted by two 
great hungry dogs, who came in useful when the sausage 
was served. 

Along one of the beams hung a row of bottles, each with 
a white label covered with writing. 

" What are those for ?" I asked. And the daughter of 
the house replied that it was the custom at Polignac to 
hang up a bottle of wine whenever a young man went away 
to join the army. 

" Look," said she, pointing, " that is for the fiance of my 
sister, Anne Marie. He will finish his service next month, 
and then the bottle will be uncorked, and we shall all 
drink to his health." 

" And this ? " I asked, pointing to a dusty bottle, the 
label of which was yellow with age. 

" Ah," said the girl, the dimples dying out of her cheeks, 
and her eyes darkening, " that was put up when my 



1 82 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

brother Geraud went away. He died in Algerie : God rest 
his soul ! " 

" But why do you not take it down, since he is gone ? " 

The girl looked round to see that we were alone. " The 
old grandmother," she said, " it would kill her to know that 
she would never see Geraud again. He was her favourite, 
her only grandson. If we leave it she need never know 
till she meets him in Paradise." 

I looked at the other bottles, each bearing the name of 
a young man, and the regiment to which he had been 
drafted, and thought of all the tears and heartaches they 
represented. Some were only a few months old ; the 
owners of others had been away a year or more, and 
might soon be expected home, while here and there 
was one whose label was illegible with age and dust, and I 
could not but wonder what had become of the owner ! 

It was quite a little climb up to the castle, "the nest," 
as Jean Ajalbert has truly said, " of that terrible race of 
vultures beneath whose ravages Velay and Auvergne once 
trembled." 

As we entered the outer gate, we were greeted by an old 
woman with twinkling black eyes, and little black loops 
of tightly plaited hair showing beneath her close white 
cap. She lived in a neat cottage, built in one corner of 
the courtyard from the debris of a fallen tower. The 
poor old thing had what my husband described as 
"double congenital dislocation of the hip," but was as 
merry and cheerful as a thrush, and went hobbling about 
the ruins, telling us endless tales of the FAMILY, spelt 
always with the biggest F to be found in her alphabet. 
And as she talked, the walls seemed to rise once more 
from their ruins. Here was the dining-hall where the 
Viscount Armand and his two sons, Pons and Eracles, 




THE CUSTODIAN OF CHATEAU POLIGNAC 



ORACLE OF APOLLO 183 

once held their wild revels. He was the worst of all the 
race, this Count Armand. It was he who set up toll gates 
on all the roads leading to Le Puy, demanding enormous 
sums from the pilgrims on their way to visit the Cathedral. 
At last the conduct of the Lords of Polignac became 
so unbearable, that the Bishop was obliged to take up 
arms against them, and, as they were generally detested, 
they were not able to face him, and were obliged to give 
hostages for their better conduct. But the same thing 
happened again and again, and the history of Polignac is 
a history of quarrels and civil wars between the Viscounts 
and the Bishops of Puy. 

The foundation of the castle is so ancient, that no one 
has any certain theory as to its origin. In the rock which 
once formed the chapel floor, are five coffins hollowed in the 
basalt itself. There, through the ages, may have lain those 
mythical ancestors of the race, who claimed to be sons of 
the god Apollo. For the Polignacs, as their name 
signifies, boasted that to be their divine origin. In very 
ancient times, the chief of the tribe being also the priest, 
offered, on the rock, sacrifices to his great progenitor. 
Later, a temple was raised to Apollo, which no doubt was 
a great annoyance to the early Christian priests at 
Ruessium and Le Puy. In its midst was the pit or well, 
the great speaking-tube through which the priests uttered 
their famous oracles. There it is still, as practicable as in 
the days when the Emperor Claude came to consult the 
god. 

As we leant over the stone parapet, the old woman 
told us how at the foot of the rock was a chamber, where, 
when the Oracle was still in working order, the pilgrims 
were accustomed to make their offerings and utter their 
request. 



1 84 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

" I come to consult the god ! " they would cry. 

" And what would you learn of the god ? " said a 
mysterious voice, as from the bowels of the earth, " for, 
Madame," explained the custodian, "the chamber com- 
municated by a secret passage with another at the bottom 
of the well, where a priest was stationed." Then the 
momentous question was asked, the pilgrim admitted, 
conducted up to the temple, where he found other 
priests, who by that time had had the question passed 
on to them by means of the well, and were ready with 
the answer. 

It was all so new to me, the idea of an Oracle to 
Apollo, here in Velay, that I suppose I looked 
incredulous. 

"Come, Madame," said the old woman gravely, "and 
you shall see the god himself!" She led us to a square 
tower, and there he was, a huge stone mask, with open 
mouth, through which any number of Oracles might find 
their way. 

" It lay upon the top of the well," said the guide. 
"Through it the priests made known the will of the god." 

" I begin to understand," said my husband, " how the 
Counts of Polignac were such thorns in the sides of the 
Bishops of Puy." 

But for myself I had given up trying to understand 
anything. I heard as though in a dream the legend of 
a certain Claude Armand of Polignac, who had a blind 
mule which he took to be healed by the Holy Nail of 
Chamalieres, an insult which the nail resented by transfer- 
ring the blindness from the beast to his master. And I 
listened to other tales of the doings of these Counts — of 
the Cardinal Melchior de Polignac, who was Archbishop 
of Auch, and wrote the Latin poem "Anti-Lucretius," and 



CASTLE OF POLIGNAC 185 

of Prince Jules de Polignac, whose mother died of grief at 
the execution of Marie Antoinette. 

But all the time I was looking at the great mask, and 
thinking of another Oracle of Apollo I had seen at Delphi, 
and of a mysterious stone with a hole in it through which 
they say the inspiration came to the Sybil seated on the 
golden tripod above. 



CHAPTER X 

Saint-Flour — The Coming of Saint Florus — The History of Saint- 
Flour — Ville Dieu — The Castle of Alleuze — Pierrefort — Carlat — 
Marguerite de Navarre 

THE first time one sees Saint-Flour, one is reminded of 
the bristly head of some burly convict, so strangely do 
the buildings sprout up from the rounded mass of rock on 
which it stands. The town has been called " An Eagle's 
Nest," the " Crown of Planeze," the " Key of High 
Auvergne" ; but I prefer my convict metaphor, there is some- 
thing so rugged about the old place, so black and forbidding 
withal. How Florus, Bishop of Lodeve, ever made up his 
mind to settle there, is a mystery. Perhaps, if it is true 
that he was one of the seventy-two disciples sent out by 
our Lord, the sight of the old Gaulish city high up in the 
clouds, recalled another mount in far away Judea, where 
he had listened to the words : " A city that is set on an hill 
cannot be hid ! " 

And why should we not believe the beautiful legend ? 
I may as well confess at once that I am very slow to give 
up my faith in these old traditions. I love the story told 
by Jacques Branche, of the good Bishop and of the vision 
he saw of the wild mountains of Auvergne, where men 
were yet wandering "among the abominable precipices 
of idolatry, and in imitation of the Druids, worshipping 
oaks and elms." The very words breathe the atmosphere 
of Saint Flour. The legend continues that, rising from sleep, 
he took with him eleven of the converts he had brought 

186 



SAINT-FLOUR 187 

from Lodeve, his first halting-place, and set off on his travels 
to find the unknown country of his dreams. It was a wild 
desolate region they had to cross, even to-day it is arid 
and bare. At last the little band sank down with fatigue, 
declaring that they could go no farther. Then Florus, 
after the manner of the saints from Moses downward, 
struck the rock and a spring appeared. But he himself 
could not rest. Perhaps something in the prospect 
reminded him of his vision, and told him he was nearing 
the place. Leaving his disciples sleeping beside the well, 
he set off by himself. The farther he went, the more 
familiar became the scene, till at last he recognized the 
landscape of his dream. There was the picturesque, 
though sombre, plateau, sheltered on the north and west 
by the mountains of Cantal ; and there in the midst stood the 
very hill, surrounded on all sides by rocks, the hill Indiciat, 
which had been pointed out to him as the scene of his 
future labours. Hurrying back to his friends, he told them 
the news, and they were soon clambering up the narrow 
path leading to the mount. 

Such is the legend, and if you ask for proof, the 
old folk will show you the place where the rock was 
miraculously opened to form an entrance for the saint : 
Porte Fraisse it is called. And if still you doubt, is there 
not the mark of a gigantic hand, said to have been left by 
our Florus as he pushed back the rock ? Until a very few 
years ago, no one failed to kneel and kiss this imprint 
when the procession paid its annual visit to the Sacred 
Fountain. 

Whatever may have been the precise date of Florus, 
certain it is that the Mount itself was a place of habitation 
from earliest times. Its name, " Indiciat," is said to signify 
a beacon, and taking into consideration the situation of 



1 88 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

the place, the first buildings must assuredly have been an 
inn for travellers, and a primitive kind of lighthouse, or 
porte-flambeau, to guide them among the winding paths of 
the forests and mountains. 

It is probable that by the time Saint Florus arrived, a 
town had sprung up, a noted meeting-place for strangers, 
the very spot an enterprizing missionary would select, for 
from it the gospel would be carried in every direction. 
So, as an old writer has said : " Indiciat remained a beacon, 
guiding souls from the dark shadow of death to a place 
of light and safety." 

The first Christian building raised on the Mount was 
nothing more than a humble oratory, served by the eleven 
followers of Florus, and after them by a band of Poor 
Brothers, who devoted themselves to the pilgrims who 
resorted in great numbers to pray on the tomb of the 
saint. It was not until the year 996 that the great 
monastery was founded, the church of which, replacing 
the little oratory, became the forerunner of the present 
cathedral. 

I am afraid my readers will think I am always talking 
about saints. It is impossible to ignore them in writing of 
the origin of most French towns, they played so important 
a part in the civilization of Gaul. However, in the pre- 
sent instance, the Monastery owed its origin to a couple 
of sinners rather than saints. Both bore the name of 
Amblard, Amblard Count of Brezons, surnamed Le Mai 
Hiverne, and Amblard that very Comptour of Apchon who 
ran away with a nun. 1 Both owned property at Indiciat, 
and each happened to have killed one of his cousins. 
Even in those days the double murder made a sensation, 
and the two nobles found themselves obliged to set out for 
1 See page 131. 



SAINT-FLOUR 189 

Rome to beg forgiveness of the Pope. Now the fame of 
Saint Florus at Indiciat had come to the Pope's ears, so, 
finding that the two culprits owned land there, it seemed 
to him a favourable opportunity for perpetuating the 
memory of the saint. He forgave them on the under- 
standing that they made over their estates to the Holy 
See, at the same time commissioning Odilon, Bishop of 
Cluny, who happened to be staying in Rome, to take 
possession and build a monastery on the site of the humble 
oratory of former days. 

There is an old story told at Saint-Flour of the arrival 
of the two penitents, how they came barefoot and weary, 
and how the priest Adalbert walked out to them, bearing 
bread and water. Not so long ago, there was an ancient 
ash tree, beneath which the meeting is said to have taken 
place, for the sinners dared not enter a town till they had 
made their peace with the Church. So there they ate and 
drank ; and, as they had asked for no remission of the 
fine imposed upon them, the matter was considered settled 
and the monastery commenced. Three hundred years 
later, Saint-Flour, as it had come to be called, was created 
a bishopric by the Pope, then living at Avignon, and 
became a place of great importance, visited by kings 
and queens. Then the English began devastating 
Auvergne, and it was to Saint-Flour that the country 
people fled for refuge, for, standing as it does on its height, 
it is the Acropolis of the district, and against its basalt 
foundations the waves of battle dashed themselves in vain. 

In fact Saint-Flour is a true virgin city. She has never 
been taken, though indeed she has been the object of 
numberless attempts. The English wooed her in their 
rough rude fashion, but she would have nothing whatever 
to say to them. They burned her suburbs, and established 



190 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

themselves in most of the strong castles of the neighbour- 
hood, and the little town not only took care of herself, but 
sent two hundred horsemen to serve under that other 
maid, Jeanne d'Arc, in the rescue of the less happily 
situated town of Orleans. 

And when the war was over, Charles the Seventh 
came, bringing with him, according to the curious 
custom of the time, La Belle des Belles, Madame Agnes 
Sorel. 

There are many stories about this visit, indeed I think 
that the virgin town was a little shocked at the coming of 
so naughty a person as Agnes : while the king was enter- 
tained in the monastery, she had to lodge in a street which 
still bears her name. 

An amusing tale is told of the king's sudden fancy for a 
young Sanflorianne, one Marguerite Bedon : how, when 
he went to visit her, he found his mistress there before 
him, and the young lady and her father warned in time, 
and so retired discomfited. 

As for Saint-Flour, she remained faithful to her first 
love Florus, the only man who ever conquered her. He 
had taught her the Catholic creed, and she never abandoned 
it. Even when Henry the Fourth ascended the throne, she 
refused to acknowledge him till he had abjured his Pro- 
testantism, and returned to the faith of his fathers. Then, 
and not till then, she sent a deputation to Paris to assure 
him of her undying loyalty. 

But when the Revolution came, then indeed poor Saint- 
Flour suffered grievously. The great bell of the Cathedral, 
Marie-Therese, was hurled from its tower, though not even 
then could it be broken, so massive was it cast : 

" Je m'appelle Marie-The'rese, 
Cinq cents quintaux je pese ; 



SAINT-FLOUR 191 

Qui ne veut pas me croire me pese, 
Me repese et me mette a mon aise." ' 

Then, too, probably it was that the great metal Christ 
was taken from the cross where he had so long hung, 
marking the spot where the first missionary had preached 
to the travellers who came and went on old Mount Indiciat. 
From all accounts it must have been a weird old figure, 
with a hole in the side through which the wind used to 
whistle, giving rise to the saying : 

" Hou ! hou ! hou ! 
Le bon Dieu de Saint-Flou ! " 

And now the town has settled down to the life of an old 
maid. Perched prudishly up on her hill, she still keeps 
herself out of the way of tourists, though indeed there is 
little to attract them. The Cathedral, though ancient, is 
bare and plain, having even to my eyes nothing very 
interesting, save a huge cross with a black figure of our 
Saviour upon it. And the great houses with their barred 
windows, the many convents, the narrow dark streets, give 
the town the appearance of a fortress. All the life has 
gone down to the river, where, with its railway station, 
lies the bustling, noisy suburb. Here, in the church of 
Saint Cristine, may still be seen the statue of Notre 
Dame de Fr^diere, probably one of the band of 
Black Virgins so distinctive of the Church in Auvergne. 
From early times this image has been held in great 
veneration, and many stories are told of the cures effected 
at the shrine. Most of the patients are children. One, a 
little boy of eight, had never spoken. His parents at 
last made up their minds to take him to Notre Dame. 

1 " L' Auvergne," by Tean Ajalbert p. 228. 



192 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

The effect on the child was instantaneous. No sooner 
had he caught sight of the image than he cried out : 
" Oh, how beautifully they have dressed her ! " and 
from that moment spoke as distinctly as anyone could 
wish. 

During the Revolution, the image found shelter in the 
house of a Sanflorian named Rodier Jean-Baptiste, who 
hid it in a mill, and afterwards under an empty hive. 
Dying, he left the secret to his daughter, Elizabeth Rodier, 
who finally, when things had settled down, gave the statue 
back to the church. 

A few miles to the south-west of Saint-Flour lies Ville 
Dieu, to-day a tiny village, but once a favourite resort of 
the Bishops of Saint-Flour. Indeed one of them, Pierre 
d'Estaing, was so fond of the place that he wished to build 
himself a palace there, and was only deterred by the 
Sanflorians, who declared that they feared for his safety 
out in that open country, overrun as it then was by the 
English. 

I had heard that there was at Ville Dieu a celebrated 
statue of the Virgin. Old Jacques Branche gives the story 
of its discovery in such quaint language that I will quote 
his words. " I should find it difficult to believe," says he, 
" that oxen, stupid, heavy creatures as they are, could have 
had the wit to show a labourer the image of Our Lady of 
Ville Dieu hidden among the brambles and bushes, and 
that this image being carried in procession to Saint-Flour, 
was several times divinely brought back to its former 
place, so that the people rebuilt their parish church in 
order to house it more honourably, had I not read 
another history of the kind about another portrait of 
Our Lady." 

Of the church so built, only the lower part of the tower 



VILLE DIEU 193 

remains together with some ancient ironwork, and the 
Sacred Well. 

Bishop d'Estaing, inspired by that fatal passion for 
rebuilding, which has always characterised the clergy, 
destroyed the older church to make room for the new. 
Yet what a weird place it is ! The tower with its open 
arch, within which can be seen the two chapels one above 
another, the solid oak screen running like a wall across 
the nave, perhaps intended to act as a barricade in case 
of surprise by English or Huguenots. On its flat top 
the most grotesque of little wooden statues, no doubt 
carried in procession on festival days, and which I shall 
always regret not having photographed. Above all, 
fixed high up on the north side of the altar, a Wheel 
of Fortune ! 

" What do you use that wheel for ? " I asked the girl who 
was dusting the church. 

She replied that it was the Sacrament bell, and was 
used as such. But it is probably a survival of the worship 
of the goddess Fortuna. 

" I have heard my grandmother say," continued the girl, 
after staring at the Wheel in silence for some minutes, 
" that when she was young, Monsieur le Cure would 
turn the Roue de la Fortune for anyone who paid two 
sous to the Saint of the Wheel." 

" And when was it done ? " I asked. 

" I think it was during the Mass," said the girl, " but 
I'm not sure, I've forgotten." 

" And you call it La Roue de la Fortune ? " 

" Yes, that is its name." 

" And the Saint of the Wheel ? " 

She pointed to one of the little painted wooden statues 
on the screen, but it was quite indefinite, dressed, I think, 
13 



194 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

as a bishop. Then finding me a good listener, she showed 
me the well, almost in the middle of the nave, just where 
the school children sit. 

" It is a good thing they have put a stone over it," said 
I. " Anyone might easily tumble in." 

" That is why there is a stone. It was put there because 
a girl did fall in." She went on to tell me the story of 
Catherine, who was so interested in watching the little 
image of the man and his oxen, which used to be exhibited 
to the people on festival days, to remind them of the ancient 
legend, that she walked right into the well, and would 
certainly have been drowned had not the water suddenly 
risen to the level of the floor, bearing her with it, so that 
Monsieur le Cure was able to take her by the hand and 
draw her out. 

Altogether Ville Dieu is a very strange place, full of 
curious legends, which to our civilized minds seem to have 
little or no significance. 

For instance, there is the Puy on which, despite all efforts 
to cultivate it, nothing whatever will grow. And the reason ? 
Well, once there was a farmer living there, who kept bees. 
Hearing that the best way to prevent them from over-swarm- 
ing was to put a bit of consecrated wafer into the hive, he 
determined to try the experiment. So on Sunday, as soon 
as he had received the Good God, he rose from his knees, 
and hurried off to the hive, where he stooped and tried to 
blow it in at the door. Unfortunately it fell to the ground. 
Immediately, however, the bees crowded out, and reverently 
lifting it, carried it into the hive. Off went the farmer to 
his work. But presently he felt a pang of conscience. 
Was not this sacrilege he had committed ? And if so what 
was to become of him ? Full of fear he hurried back to 
the hive, which he plunged in water till all the poor bees, 



VILLE DIEU i 9 S 

not one of which was to blame for his sin, were drowned. 
But being an Auvergnat he was of an economical turn, and 
did not like the idea of losing the honey and wax. So 
turning up the hive he began emptying it, when at the 
door, just where he had expected to find the morsel of 
wafer, there lay a child, white and dead. It was the 
Good God Himself he had killed. Terrified, the man 
caught up the little body, and was about to bury it, 
when it vanished utterly, and so fearful was the crime, 
that everyone in the place died ; it was as though Madame 
la Peste herself had twisted their necks with her bony 
fingers. And since then, nothing has ever grown on the 
Puy de Ville Dieu, and nothing ever will ! Now what 
is one to make of a legend like that, or of the people 
who invented it ? 

At the time when the Black Plague was visiting Saint- 
Flour, the inhabitants vowed a yearly pilgrimage to Our 
Lady of Ville Dieu. Little by little the godly custom has 
been abandoned, though as late as eight or ten years ago, 
the White Penitents of Saint-Flour would still march out 
in procession on the Sunday of the Good Shepherd, and 
pay their vows to La Bonne Mere. 

Beyond Ville Dieu the road becomes a mere track, 
winding its way among dwarf pines and oaks, which rise 
out of a mass of tangled undergrowth. It is a most desolate 
spot, and the more so for the memories which haunt it of 
La Bete du Gevaudan. Everybody has some story to tell 
of this mysterious beast, who was quite a " gourmet," with 
a taste for the prettiest and tenderest children of Gevaudan 
and Auvergne. He seems to have had a preference for little 
girls, and devoured so many that in 1764 and 1765 their 
names made quite a goodly show in the parish registers. 
All the noted huntsmen of the time turned out to chase 



196 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

him, but without avail, and the stories which got about, 
that the BEAST was invulnerable, a were-wolf, a something 
altogether beyond nature, did not help to quiet the terror 
of the peasants. 

At last, on 21st September 1765, the President 
Roosevelt of that time, Monsieur Antoine, the King's 
Huntsman, killed a gigantic wolf, 5 feet 7 inches long, 
and weighing 1 50 pounds, a beast which certainly accounted 
for a good many little girls. A month later his mate 
was taken, and one by one his offspring. But stories of 
La Bete are still told to children of Saint-Flour, to prevent 
their loitering on their way back from school, and there is 
still to be seen on nights of storm, a phantom huntsman 
clothed in flaming red, driving his baying hell-hounds 
through the forest. 

For ourselves we saw nothing alive in the wood, whose 
soil is too poor to provide decent living for a worm. 
Gradually the trees themselves ceased, and we found 
ourselves out on the bare rock, the nose of our car 
looking down into a deep intricate valley, from whose 
depths rose the steep conical hill, crowned by the 
Castle of Alleuze. It needed our utmost care, and 
every possible form of brake we could contrive, to 
avoid an accident. At last, we landed on a ledge of 
rock, which, though occupied by two or three cottages, 
and a calvary, left room for us to turn. The wild look- 
ing woman who came out and stared at us, told us 
that the road went on down into the valley toward 
Pierrefort, but after looking at it, we preferred to take our 
chance of climbing back to Ville Dieu. Before doing so, 
however, we went to visit the castle. 

Grey it is, grey as the bare rock on which it stands. 
The sky was grey also, for a storm was coming up, and 



. 



CASTLE OF ALLEUZE 197 

heavy black clouds were pushing and shouldering one 
another across the darkening vault. Forming a background 
to the castle, was a curtain of black pine trees, all the 
valley from top to bottom was lined with them, only in the 
midst, as though thrown up in a single jet, was the grey 
hill, with its ghostly grey ruin. It would be too theatrical 
for a painter, no one would believe it ! No wonder the 
Beast chose it as a lair. 

We had just set up our camera when the storm 
broke, and we had to cover it up, and wait on the 
cornice path which creeps along the side of the valley 
wall. 

" Do you see anyone beside the gate ? " asked my 
husband, who had been peering over at the castle. 

" I'm not sure," said I. " I think I do." 

" Ever since we set up the camera a man has been sitting 
there. I suppose it must be inhabited." 

The woman, her skirt turned over her head because of 
the rain, had come out to watch the performance. 

" Is there anyone living at the castle ? " I asked. 

" No, no ! Not a soul ! " said she, and her eyes followed 
those of my husband. "The gentlefolk see someone?" 
she inquired. 

" We thought so." 

" Ah, possibly," said she indifferently. " It has its 
history, the chateau. They say a man was killed 
there when sitting by the door. It is probably he 
himself." 

" Nonsense ! " said my husband, " that's no ghost. It's 
some shepherd sheltering from the rain." 

Well, we took the picture, and the storm presently 
clearing a little, climbed down the path to the stream, and 
struggled up the rough cone to the ruin. I confess my 



198 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

heart beat a little faster as I approached the entrance. 
But there was nothing there. 

" He must be inside," said my husband blankly. " I 
saw him only a moment ago." 

Yet search as we would we could find no one, not even the 
ghost of the porter, shot here by the cross bow of Amerigot 
Marche's Breton archer. We reminded each other of 
the story, as we looked up into the empty shell, which is all 
that is left of " Aloise." No doubt you remember it, but 
in case you have forgotten, here is the old legend told in 
Froissart's matchless words : 

" Amerigot made one day an excursion to seek ad- 
ventures, and took the road toward Aloise near Saint-Flour, 
which has a handsome castle, in the bishopric of Clermont ; 
and they knew that castle was guarded only by the porter. 
As they were riding silently toward Aloise " (on the very 
path from which we had taken our photograph), "Amerigot 
spies the porter, sitting on the trunk of a tree withoutside 
of the castle. A Breton, who shot extraordinarily well 
with the cross bow, says to him : ' Would you like to have 
that porter killed at a shot?' 'Yes,' replied Amerigot, 
'and I beg you will do so.' Then the cross bowman 
shoots a bolt, which he drives into the porter's head, and 
knocks him down. The porter, feeling himself mortally 
wounded, regains the gate, which he attempts to shut, 
but cannot, and falls down dead. So Amerigot and 
his companions hasten to the castle, which they enter 
by the wicket, and there they see the porter lying 
dead, and his wife distracted beside him. They do 
her no harm, but inquire where the Constable of the 
castle is, and learning that he is in Clermont, promise 
to spare her life, if she will give them the keys of the 
castle and of the dungeon, which, when she had done, 



CASTLE OF ALLEUZE 199 

they shut her out, having given her what belonged 
to her, and indeed as much as she could carry away. 
And she went to Saint-Flour, which is but a league off, 
where the inhabitants were much frightened, as well as 
all the adjoining country, when they heard that Aloise 
was become English." 

We were rather thoughtful as we came out of the 
ancient gateway, and looked at the spot where the porter 
had been seated. What was it we had seen ? 

Then I fell thinking of Amerigot's words with regard to 
this same Aloise, and his regret for having sold it, as he 
did later. 

" How happy we were when, riding out in search of 
adventures, we met a rich abbot, a merchant, a string of 
mules well laden with draperies, furs, and spices. . . . Every 
day we gained money. The peasants of Auvergne and 
Limousin loved us, and provided our castle with corn, 
meal, baked bread, litter for our horses, . . . good 
wine, fat beeves, sheep, and all sorts of poultry. We 
lived like kings, and when we went abroad the country 
trembled." 

I have no doubt it did. But oh, Amerigot, how about 
the people loving you ! 

Our automobile had a great struggle after we left the 
Calvary of Alleuze. She is a long-suffering gentle- 
mannered car, but she grumbled audibly at the 15 or 
16 per cent, climb over bare bed rock, till at last growling 
angrily, she lowered her head and went for it ! However, 
no sooner did she once more feel herself in safety, than she 
began humming again in her pleasant cheery manner, 
and by the time we had regained the highroad, was as 
happy as ever. 

Later we passed Pierrefort, with its ruined castle and 



aoo AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

memories of Tristan Volpiliere, and that charming heroine 
Guillemine de Fontanges. I have heard a story some- 
where of how they ran away together, and were besieged 
in this very castle by her father. It was on these old 
battlements that Guillemine used to show herself every 
day, hoping that the sight would move the besiegers to 
pity, so that they would leave her and her lover in peace. 
And after it was all over, and her father had vindicated 
his parental authority, it was back to this castle she came 
as a bride, and no doubt often sat at those very windows, 
looking down over the roofs of the little town stretched out 
like a fan at foot of the rock. 

Finally in an intricate valley we come upon Carlat, lying 
high on the hillside, and above it the foundations of that 
great castle, once the strongest citadel of Auvergne. But 
only the foundations. In the church, curious old building 
that it is, you will find the record of the destruction of the 
fortress. It was ordered by Henry IV. and carried out by 
the Sieur de Giou. 

We had left the storm behind at Alleuze, and the 
evening sun was warm and bright. Beside the door of a 
vine-draped cottage, just above the church, sat an old old 
man. He was so very old, his blue eyes so dim, his long 
fine hair so silvery white, that he might almost have been 
one of those shepherds, whose heads Marguerite de Valois 
turned so cruelly, during her visit to Carlat. She was in a 
pitiful enough state when she arrived, for she had been 
riding night and day to escape from her husband's soldiers, 
and had not even a change of linen. But Marguerite 
never found much difficulty in getting what she wanted, 
and soon had, not only clothes, but young fair-haired foot- 
men, whose heads supplied her with extra curls, and as for 
lovers, it is well known that she picked them up wherever 



CARL AT 201 

she went as readily as blackberries. The old man prattled 
on of " La Reine Margot " as if he had indeed known her in 
his youth. 

" Eh, Madame," said he with a sly wink, " but she was a 
beauty, was Queen Margot. Bon Dieu what a misfortune 
it was she and her husband could not agree. But the 
Bearnois are always like that. No doubt the Good God 
made them so, but it must be a sad life for their 
wives. I have heard that even when our gracious lady 
consented to forgive him, and return to Nerac, he made 
her weep before dinner was over, and next day sent for 
one of his countesses to bear him company. Is it a 
wonder that the queen ran away, and took refuge with her 
own people of Auvergne ? Is she to be blamed for that ? " 

" But it was scarcely her place to raise an insurrection 
against her husband," I observed. The old man sniffed 
disdainfully. 

" Her husband ! " said he. " Truly a pretty husband this 
Prince of Beam ! With all her faults our Queen was worth 
ten of him ! " 

As he ended, the old fellow rose, and led the way up 
the steep wall of rock, by little paths overgrown with wild 
rose and honeysuckle, till we came to the towers in the 
outer wall, huge fortifications jutting out of the basalt 
cliff on which the castle once stood. I say once, for as 
we reach the top, the vast smooth rectangular space is 
seen to be bare as a tennis court. One can just trace the 
walls, the position of the towers and windows, or fancies 
one can ; and here and there is a hole leading down to 
some forgotten dungeon. But for the rest it is a blank. 
Truly the Sieur de Giou used the 12,000 livres, given 
him by Henri, well. 

But what a fortress must this have been ! It was Nature 



202 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

herself who prepared its foundations. In travelling about 
Auvergne one becomes accustomed to the sight of these 
great black rocks, thrown up ages ago by the powers which 
fashioned this strange land. Sometimes, the columns which 
form them are so regular in shape, that you would vow 
they were the work of those Cyclops who built the many 
pillared Tiryns. But it was long before the time 
of Tiryns that this rock was laid down ; and ever since 
the powers of nature have been at work, expanding, 
contracting, splitting, washing, smoothing, sculpturing, 
till there it stands to-day, a vast black rectangular 
pedestal ; the top, flat as a paving stone, level as the 
surface of that great stream of liquid lava which once 
flowed over the country. 

Then came the Romans, fortifying the already im- 
pregnable height, and raising a fortress which gave a world 
of trouble later to the Kings of France. Clovis came and 
besieged it vainly ; and though Louis le D^bonnaire took 
it in 839, it cost him more than it was worth. Later it 
was lost to that ubiquitous brigand, Amerigot Marche, of 
whom we are constantly hearing. Of any one of these 
periods Carlat has stories to tell. But it is not of them 
that we think as we look around. 

In the midst of what must once have been the courtyard, 
stands an ancient lime tree, so venerable that in its youth 
it may have sheltered the beautiful Marguerite. As we 
seated ourselves beneath it, my eyes wandered away over 
miles and miles of mountains, the blue hills of Cantal, the 
Montes Celtorum of the ancients. 

There at least nothing has changed. A lark springs up, 
singing the very song his far away ancestor sang to that 
strange daughter of the Valois, as she lay in bed, resting 
after the long ride from Agen, and waiting for the much- 



MARGUERITE DE VALOIS 203 

needed supplies of money and clothes, she had sent to beg 
from her brother-in-law Philip II. of Spain. Poor Margot, 
when at last the messengers returned, very little of what 
they brought reached her, for Governor Lignerac and 
Chaplain Choisnin claimed the lion's share. And when 
she remonstrated, the former actually forced himself into 
her chamber, and had to be driven away with blows, vowing 
vengeance as he went. No wonder the Queen dreaded 
him. 

How the leaves of the lime tree rustle ! What are they 
whispering about ! Surely of that summer day, when, 
wandering sadly among the valley meadows, the beautiful 
Queen came upon the peasant Jean, feeding his sheep 
beside the river. These Valois must always be making 
war or love, and as for the moment Marguerite was not 
engaged in the former, she fell a ready victim to the 
latter. Perhaps it was then she first murmured the 
verse : 

" A ces bois, ces prez et ces antres, 
Offrons les voeux, les pleurs, les sons, 
La plume, les vers, les chansons 
D'un poete, d'un amant, d ; un chantre ! " 

And Jean de Resigade, as he was afterwards called ? 
No doubt she seemed to him a goddess, or one of those 
Fados de Fareire, who in those days dwelt in the 
marvellous grottos among the basalt columns. And so in 
return he sang her his shepherd's song. . . . Stop ! . . . 
the old man beside me has taken out his pipe, and is 
crooning it in his quavering voice : 

" Per los cans d'en Douno, 
L'yo de giontos flours, 
De flugos, de rougio, 
De toutos coulours. 



204 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

E si yeou l'i onabe 
N'en culirio be, 
O lo miono amio 
N'en pourtario be." 

I don't know whether Marguerite understood the old 
language of Auvergne, but it is probable, since her grand- 
mother was an Auvergnate. For myself I found the 
translation later. 1 

" In the fields beside the stream 
There are pretty flowers growing, 
Flowers blue and flowers red, 
Flowers of all colours blowing, 
And if I should wander there, 
I will pluck those flowers sweet, 
I will pluck them, I will bring them, 
I will cast them at your feet." 

As the old man ends he points away to the right, where 
down in the valley I can see a building. 

" It is the Castel de Cabanes ! " he says, " the chateau 
the Queen had built for her shepherd lover. From 
her tower here she could see it and make signals to 
him." 

" That was very naughty ! " said I, shaking my head. 

" Perhaps, Madame ! But the times were different. 
And morever she was a queen and needed dis- 
traction." 

" And pray how long did all this go on ? " said 
I. 

" Oh, for some time. And to be sure there were others. 
There was the son of the apothecary, who was murdered 
in her very chamber by the governor, who himself was 

1 " L' Auvergne," by Jean Ajalbert, p. 277. 






THE POSTERN ENTRANCE TO THE CASTLE OF CARLAT 



MARGUERITE DE VALOIS 205 

Epris ! Bah ! what a brute that governor was ! To stab 
the young man so that he fell on the bed, covering the poor 
lady with his blood ! Could they not have found a better 
opportunity ? And then d'Aubiac. Ah, but that was a 
more serious affair. 

I waited hoping to hear more, but the old man seemed 
to have fallen into a reverie, and it was the leaves that 
whispered the rest of the story. They told me of the 
meeting at Agen, when the youth seeing the queen for 
the first time exclaimed : " Oh, the lovely creature ! If I 
might only be so happy as to please her, how gladly 
would I die an hour later ! " and he had his wish. This 
old lime tree, or its father, has often listened to the love- 
songs she composed in his honour, sung by choirs of 
village children, while she sat twanging her lute. A year 
and a half later, the Queen, fearing for her safety, determined 
to escape from Carlat, taking d'Aubiac with her. 

I had risen from my seat, and was peering around trying 
to find some trace of La Tour de Margot, or the convent, 
or the little cemetery, or any of the other buildings they 
say once lay within the walls, when I heard my husband 
calling to me. 

" Look ! " said he, pointing downward, " that must be 
the way she went." 

It was a crack in the basalt, a dark narrow fissure, fitted 
with a flight of rough stone steps. I cannot express the 
feelings with which I clambered down this ancient secret 
staircase, haunted if ever a place is haunted ! Before I 
had reached the bottom, where once stood the hidden 
postern gate, I was Margot herself, creeping down fear- 
fully, followed by the lover-secretary. Instinctively I 
drew my skirt closer, afraid lest its rustle against the 
black rock should betray me to the sentinel above. 



206 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

Now we have reached the bottom, are crossing the 
valley, knocking at the door of Le Chateau de 
Cabanes. . . . 

They say it was Jean de Resigade himself who opened 
it, and there the lovers remained hidden, till the way was 
open to Pestels, where Marguerite knew she would be safe 
for a time, in the house of her friend Camille de Fontanges, 
wife of le Marquis de Miramont. 

As to d'Aubiac, his end is well known. He followed 
his royal mistress to the castle of Usson, near Issoire, 
where for a time they remained in peace. But the Marquis 
de Canillac, the governor, becoming jealous of the secretary, 
had him taken to Aigueperse, where he was condemned 
to be strangled. And as he walked to the scaffold, he 
held in his hands a blue velvet cuff which he kissed and 
kissed as his tears fell upon it. And even with the 
cord around his neck, he could be heard murmuring 
the name of his adored lady, . . . and so died ! 



Si quelque curieux, informe de ma plainte, 
S'e"tonne de me voir si vivement atteinte, 
Re"pondez seulement, pour prouver qu'il a tort, 
Le bel Atys est mort ! 



Atys, de qui la perte attriste mes anne"es, 
Atys, digne des vceux de tant d'ames bien n£es, 
Que j'avais eleve pour montrer aux humains 
Une oeuvre de mes mains. 



Si je cesse d'aimer, qu'on cesse de pretendre 
Je ne veux desormais etre prise, ne prendre, 
Et consens que le ciel puisse esteindre mes feux, 
Car rien n'est digne d'eux. 



MARGUERITE DE VALOIS 207 

Cet amant de mon coeur, qu'une eternelle absence 
Eloigne de mes yeux, non de ma souvenance ; 
A tire - quand et soy, sans espoir de retour, 
Ce que j'avais d'amour. 

{Chanson de la Reine M argot.) 



CHAPTER XI 

Aurillac — Saint-Geraud — The Legend of Gerbert the Wizard — The 
Story of Guy de Veyre — The Black Virgin of Aurillac — Marie de 
Senectere — The Bourrde — Vermenouze the Poet of Auvergne. 

HERE I am, sitting in my comfortable bedroom at the 
Hotel Saint Pierre, enjoying a rest after the long 
day's motoring. Below, runs the broad busy quay, (if 
anything can be said to be busy in " lazy Aurillac "), and 
beyond the quay is the river Jordanne. The first sight 
of Aurillac, although charming, is not impressive. I love 
ancient towns, with narrow winding streets, and over- 
hanging gables. Even their squalor is picturesque, 
and their many odours suggestive. Such towns may 
be unhealthy to live in, but they are delightful to 
visit. 

" I doubt if we shall find even a photograph here," said 
I, as we turned into Le Gravier, with its well-kept walks 
and handsome statue of General Delzous. " It all looks 
so terribly clean and modern." And indeed, I found later 
that the people of Aurillac pride themselves upon being 
up-to-date. They are always cleaning up, pulling down, 
rebuilding, till there is scarcely a genuine old monument 
in the place. 

Yet here, we are in the heart of Cantal, in a town 
with a history as interesting as that of any in Le 
Centre. 

While I sat there, disconsolately looking down on the 
river, I forgot the story which that very stream has to tell. 



AURILLAC 209 

It began ages ago, with the first Gaulish Celts who found 
their way here. These people invariably settled in clans, 
retaining their family traditions and affections. Their 
quarrels were many and violent, but they were family 
quarrels. They were ruled by magistrates chosen by 
themselves, who had the duty of apportioning the land 
to each household. Each clan had its own laws or 
"customs." It was a patriarchal state of things, well- 
suited to the country and the times, and later, when the 
Romans arrived, they had the good sense to leave the 
laws of Cantal little changed. But after the Romans 
came the Franks, with their domineering Teuton methods, 
and a bad time began for the easy-going pastoral people. 
" No land without a lord ! No lord without a title ! " was 
the cry of these invaders. On every hilltop a Frankish 
chief settled himself, and, with a rod of iron, ruled over 
all the land he could see from his lofty perch. It was 
hard on the peasants, who, after all, were the real owners } 
but they made little resistance. The Celts have never 
been able to combine under one leader, so they gradually 
fell into more and more abject slavery. Every little clan 
was from henceforth dominated by a fortress, where the 
foreign usurper lived, and battened on the misery of his 
wretched slaves. Of course this was the same, more or 
less, all over France, but Auvergne, being particularly 
difficult of access, on account of its mountains, was the 
most notoriously down-trodden and oppressed province in 
the kingdom. 

The first star in the people's firmament arose in 856. 
Do you see that square tower up there on the height? 
It is La Tour du Chateau St Etienne, all that is left of 
the Castle of Aurillac, once the home of Saint GeYaud. 
He was the only son of a race which, according to his 
14 



2io AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

biographer, Odon, Abbot of Cluny, " eclipsed all the other 
families of Gaul." Among his ancestors were reckoned 
Constantine the Great, Clovis, Charlemagne, and a host 
of other kings and saints, too numerous to mention. It 
was this young patrician, who made of down-trodden 
Aurillac, one of the earliest municipalities in France, 
and his story reads like that of some modern Christian 
socialist. 

There is the freeing of the serfs, a marvellous act in 
those days, and one which brought down on him infinite 
ridicule and opposition. Then followed the division of 
his estates into small holdings, or farms, on each of 
which he settled a family. There they lived, much as 
the old Celtic clans had lived before the coming of 
the Franks, regaining the lost independence they had 
once enjoyed. And there their descendants may still 
be found. 

Then Geraud, being still encumbered with much of this 
world's goods, turned his attention to the building of 
monasteries. At Aurillac, he had a good deal of difficulty 
about the security of the foundations, and the workmen 
became so discouraged, that once, at least, they struck. 
But the Saint knew how to conciliate them as well as 
any President of the Local Government Board, and, at 
last, the great basilica stood there complete, with its 
cloisters, and hospitals, and lodgings for pilgrims, all 
surrounded by the fortifications, which, in those days, 
were so necessary ; and watched over by the castle, in 
which the Saint himself had been born. You can picture 
it all again, if you go to the church of Saint Geraud, for 
there you are on the very spot where the ancient abbey 
once stood. 

Every 13th of October the festival of the good young 



SAINT GERAUD 211 

Count of Aurillac is celebrated, and his bones, some of 
the few relics which escaped the ravages of the Revolu- 
tion, are carried in procession through the town. And 
everyone talks about him, for he is a well-known character 
in Cantal, one of those patriot saints canonized by Rome, 
because she found him already enshrined in the memory 
and affections of the people. How many of the legends 
told of him are actually true, and how many merely 
symbolical, is difficult to determine. One of the most 
curious is a certain love story, of which I have heard many 
variants. Here is the form as it came from the young 
girl Lucile, who waited on me, and who might have been 
the heroine, so pretty she was, with her deep grey eyes, 
fair skin, and masses of light chestnut hair. 

It seems that one of Geraud's tenants had a charming 
daughter called Ebroi'ne. During his lonely walks the 
young lord had often met this girl, and the sight of her 
beauty had given him pleasure, for everything beautiful 
was to him sacred, reminding him of the divine, from 
which all beauty has its birth. Again and again he 
came across her, plucking the flowers or sitting with her 
work beside the stream, and Ebro'fne no doubt was pleased 
with the attentions of this handsome young lord, who, 
with his tall graceful figure, bright dark eyes, golden hair, 
and face as fair as a lily, differed so from the young men 
of her class. They would sit by the hour talking together, 
always innocently, as a couple of angels might have 
done. 

" But Madame knows what men are ! " sagely observed 
Lucile, shaking her head. 

Little by little Geraud's feelings for the young girl 
underwent a change. If he did not see her during his 
walk, he became dull and irritable, and horribly jealous 



•i • A.UVERGNE and its PEOPLE 

it he heard her mention any other young in. in. And 
then came tin- reali ation of what it all meant. 

It was evening, ami he was wandering by t lir hanks 
of the Jordanne. All day he had seen nothing <>< KbroTne, 
and his face was gloomy as he thought »>i her. Suddenly 
he stopped. From behind a group oi willows tame a 
SOng, B Song he had often heard her sing, as they loitered 
hand In hand through the forest. Softly he crept nearer, 
till, on Lifting a branch, he saw tin- beautiful girl leaning 

Over the stream, smiling and singing to her own re- 
flection in the water. For a moment he watehed her, 
then turning, fled away as though a fiend were at his 
heels. hot days he wandered in the woods, praying, 
crying aloud, beating his breast, struggling against this 
temptation which beset him, At last, unable to bear 

it longer, he felt he must see her onee more, if Only to 
say good bye. Hastening- to the cottage, he knocked, 
The door was opened by her mother, who stood enrtseying 
and smiling, " Yes, h'biome was in the kitchen, Would 
Monsieur be pleased to enter." lie found the maiden 
standing by the open window, through which the stars 
Could be seen, for it was night. As she heard his foot- 
Steps, she turned, "A star has just fallen." she said, "a 
soul has passed from Purgatory to Paradise." Her eyes 
met his, Suddenly his outstretched arms fell, and he 
Staggered back with a cry. /'/',// KbroYne? / liat hideous 
deformity? It was not possible! Yet there was the 
mother smiling and nodding, and the girl herselt looking 
at him as though she knew him. Then, as he- gazed at 
her altered face, a light broke in on the Saint. So this 
was God's answer to his prayer, It was His mere)-, which 
blinded him to KbroVne's beauty, so that her fair face 
seemed to him repulsive And horrible, and heaving a 



SAINT G&RAVD zi$ 

great sigh of r'-.]i<:f, he \>r<>V.<: out. in praiSCf and thai 
givings to his Maker, and went off once mor»; info the 
night 

J'oor GeTaud, his short life- was one Little with Hi'; 
powers of darkness. 'J Fie peasants, for whom he bad 
given Ins lif<:, neither understood nor appreciated fiirn. 

The very monks, with whom he had peopled hii 

monastery, turn':') against him, finding if impossible to 

Jive- up to his standard. u A true monk," he would say, 
"should bean angel!" and these young men were, from 
all accounts, very far from that ideal, ft must have been 
a bitter disappointment, aftei all the care he had taken 
with their training and education. But he won them 

over in the end. There is a beautiful description of his 
death written by the Bishop of Cluny. heeling his 
strength failing, he called his people together. "Very 
dear friends/' .aid he, "the day draws near, when my 

soul will return to its Maker, and this fragile covering 
crumble to dust." Then if. was that this lonely young 
man, who, had he lived ten centuries later, might have 
revolutionized France, discovered what a bold he had 
on tlie affections of the people. From <:vcry quarter 
they came Crowding, priests, monks, nobles and peasants, 
Weeping and mourning the loss which was about to fall 

upon them. And in the midst of all the affliction, GeVaud 
lay smiling and joyful, "knowing that those who put their 

trust in God, will see rising before- them in the < /ening 

of life, the glorious sun of eternity." It //as Friday, the 
13th of October, //her/ the dawn began to break. All 
night the Saint, in spite of his weariness, had been li .tening 

to the prayers of his chaplain, trying to sing the psalms 

in his feeble voice. Then, just as the first ray of sunshine 

fell on his white fact and still golden hair, he closed bis 



214 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

eyes, murmuring, " Oh, Saints of God, come to my help." 
Someone ran hastily, calling to the bishop, and they laid 
the Saint on a hair cloth, while a monk recited the prayers 
for the dying, and a priest fetched the Eucharist. When 
it came they thought him dead, he lay so still and white. 
" But," as Odon says, " at the approach of the God Saviour, 
they saw his eyes open, and a smile of recognition light 
up his face, as he waited for the Heavenly Visitor. And 
no sooner had he received the body of the Lord Jesus, 
than his blessed soul took flight to that heaven from which 
it had come." 

1 wish I could give you some idea of this beautiful 
soul, this tenth-century knight of the Christian Church. 
But no one can realize what Ge>aud did for Cantal, unless 
he goes to Aurillac, and studies his life among the scenes 
where it was lived. And that is what I hope I may incite 
some of my readers to do, and then perhaps, tell me 
whether, since the time of Geraud's Master, there has 
ever been a more angelic character than this Sir Galahad 
of Cantal. 

While I was still meditating, my husband entered and 
carried me off for a walk by the river. The sun was 
setting, and the rippled surface of the water glittered like 
gold. I told him how I had read that ages ago, the 
robber Celts, who dwelt in the mountains, where the 
Jordanne takes its rise, had come back from an expedition 
to the Romanized plain, bringing with them great treasure 
of golden vessels, which they melted into ingots, in order 
to carry them more easily. And how, just as they reached 
the town of Mandailles, they were overtaken, and only 
had time to pitch the treasure down the gulf into the 
river bed. In the fight which followed, every brigand 
was killed, and the gold remained in the bed of the stream. 



,AJ.'J GEBBEB1 215 

And ^v^r ilncc, the waves of the Jordanne have brc 

; - gold, which flicker and dance in the sun 

■, muat originally ha v< invent d the 
/ 
'//;.;,-- I was talking, an old man bad I -ome up, and, 
■ .' on the wall, Jr.- , I was saying. 

ad spoken in French, in Aurillac it makes one less 
..■ .';us. As I ended, he spat contemptuously Into 
the vater, and thook his head, " Noj)'. '/.-.'-, Madame, 
nonsense!" he exclaimed. "Monsieur is no child to 
believe inch tale*. Ev< ryone in Aurillac knows the 01 
of the gold ol the Jordanne/' 

We had heard 1.. itory of the much-maligned scientist 

Gerbert, but, unwilling to d appoint our new friend, 

protested ignorance, and, leating ourselves on th< //.;.. 

beside him, my husband offered him one of his fev/ re* 

ing and carefully cherished Turkifb cigarette* The 

old man smoke* and smoked an', imoked, till 1 thought 
he v/. ; /' going to begin ; but I dared not disturb him 
foi 'r:-.: ■/: log ng the tale altogether, and there we were, 
.-;jed in a row like three -..,.,. gazing down 
into thi fiery urate* At last be threw away the cigarette 
end, offered us each a pinch of snuff, took one himself, 
and b ■••.. g - . --.' in a thorough and iatiffactory 
man;,'-;, began "1 Mtppo* /-..'/': heard oi Gei 1 
him the/ve put a statu'-, o over in the Gravier," with 
a side nod. 

vizard ?" I inqu ired innocently/ 
Ay-/' »aid he, "the wizard Gerbert, or the thepherd 
.; Beliiac, or His Holiness Pope Sylvestre II. What- 

yOV ■■'■ tO '-■■■■ ■■ :■. ■"■■ ■-■ I '■:■' :■:::.'. t0 DM (Veil, it 

m vhile be irai ip at the monastery there, that this 
ich I'm going to tell y>u. He wa* 



216 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

still a young man, but he knew more than any of the 
monks, more than God Almighty ever meant a man 
to know in those days, for he had been on the Spanish 
Road, and gathered all kinds of learning from the black 
heathen he met there. What price he had to pay for 
this knowledge, God knows, but the old monks, who had 
watched him when he was nothing but a shepherd boy, 
shook their heads, when they found how he knew the 
songs of the birds, and understood unknown signs, and 
reckoned by strange mysterious figures which they had 
never seen. But it was the Abbot, who had found him, a 
child, trying to count the stars, and had brought him to the 
monastery and taught him to read and write, who was 
most troubled. He and Gerbert argued together till both 
of them lost their temper, and then they fell arguing 
again." 

" I suppose both were Auvergnats ? " I asked demurely. 

"Assuredly," said the old man, then, as he looked up 
and caught my eye, he added, with a sly smile : " Ah, it is 
easy to see Madame knows the Auvergnat ! " 

" I have heard that there are more lawyers in Auvergne 
than any other part of France," I said. 

" Ah, well, we are as the Good God made us. But wait 
till you go to Mauriac ! We Aurillacois settle our 
differences between ourselves, as brothers should. But 
at Mauriac, Ma foi ! a word leads to a blow, a blow to an 
avocat, and an avocat to God knows where ! " 

This remark seemed to lead to so much silent reflection, 
and he shook his head and took such an abnormal 
amount of snuff, that at last I had to break in on his 
reverie. 

" And Gerbert ? " I inquired. 

" Ah," said he, waking up. " Gerbert, yes, 1 had for- 



SAINT GERBERT 217 

gdtetL The dispute, look you, was as to how much a 
man ought to know. It is a difficult matter. The Abbot 
was old-fashioned. ' What is all this learning ? ' said he, 
' where does it lead ? To heaven ? On the contrary, my 
son, vine, we are told that the Tree of Knowledge was 
not intended for man.' 

" At last, one afternoon, Gerbert proposed a walk to 
Bclliac, the village where he was born. There, in the 
Maison du Pape, as it is still called, the dispute was re- 
newed, hotter than ever, Gerbert protesting that the fields 
of knowledge were open to all. 

'"My Father,' said he, ' will you believe if I turn the 
waters of the Jordanne into gold ?' 

"The Abbot smiled. 'Oh, yes,' he said, 'I will believe 
then.' 

" Thereupon Gerbert cut himself a forked branch of hazel, 
and, after tracing many sign:, and figure,, struck the water, 
muttering meanwhile words, which he had no doubt 
learned from a magical book he had, called ' Abacus.' As 
the stick fell, it seemed to flame, and the waves changed 
to gold, so that, between the. banks, there rolled a heavy 
molten stream of metal, that seemed to have just escaped 
from a furnace. Ah, I wish I had been there ! I should 
not have been afraid like the Abbot. Not I ! What did 
he do but make the sign of the Cross, and back it went to 
water. Bah ! " 

" It is all gold to-night," said I. 

" Aye," he replied, "they say the mass of gold still lies 
in the bed of the stream at Belliac, but that, of course, is 
only a fable. Do you suppose we Auvergnats would have 
left it there all these years? " 

We sat for some time watching the stream, as it changed 
from gold to copper, from copper to blood-red, and finally 



2i8 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

we rose and went over to look at the statue of Gcrbert, 
which stands at the end of the Place Deschaux. There 
we found the great wizard represented in his papal robes 
and triple crown, figuring as Pope Sylvestre II., and on the 
pedestal below, four bronze plaques, on which are depicted 
scenes from the life of this scientific " Saint." There is 
the shepherd boy of Belliac kneeling among his sheep, a 
forked hazel branch in his hand, gazing up at the stars ; 
and behind him are gathered the monks from the Convent 
of SaintjGeraud. Later, we find him among his crucibles 
and retorts, an alchemist, an astrologer, one of the great 
pioneers of science. For we are told, how, instead of 
praying and giving himself up to the consolations of 
religion, this curious monk would be found, watching the 
sleeping plants, listening in springtime to the sap rising 
from the bosom of the earth, gathering the dews 
of morning, concocting strange philtres and drugs. 
From studying the winds and streams, he fashioned an 
organ, through which the air was forced, by means of 
a current of water ; and by juggling with springs and 
wheels, he made a clock which called out the hours of 
its own accord. 

No wonder they distrusted him ! Yet, in spite of all 
this, he became Pope. He was not a favourite ; clever 
people seldom are ! His less enlightened brethren said 
that he had sold himself to the Devil, who would surely 
claim him on the day he said mass at Jerusalem. 

For a time all went well, Gerbert avoiding a journey 
to the Holy Land as he would the pest ! One day, 
however, as he was celebrating Mass in a strange 
church, he was seized with faintness. " What is the 
name of this church ? " he gasped, in sudden fear. 
" Your Holiness, it is the church of Jerusalem," said 



GUY DE VEYRE 219 

the priest, who was bending over him, and Gerbert knew 
that he was lost. 

They buried him in a black stone coffin, beneath the 
porch of Saint John Lateran. There, even in death, he 
made himself felt. Whenever a Pope was about to die, 
the black coffin slad became covered with sweat, just as 
Gerbert's face had done, when he knew his end was 
approaching. Finally, one Pope, hearing that the fatal 
stone showed signs of moisture, ordered the coffin to be 
opened, and the body to be destroyed. They found 
Gerbert lying in his shroud, fresh and rosy as a vampire, 
his eyes open, his lips parted. For a moment he seemed 
about to rise, then a cloud of sulphurous smoke issued from 
the tomb, driving back the would-be body snatchers, and 
when they looked again, the coffin was empty, save for a 
little dust, which was all that was left of the famous monk 
of Aurillac. 

On the way back to the hotel, we visited the church of 
Notre Dame aux Neiges. It was almost too dark to see 
the little black face of Our Lady, surmounted by its golden 
helmet. But we sat some time in the gathering dusk, 
thinking of the hero Guy de Veyre, and how he saved the 
town of Aurillac, from the Huguenots that August night, 
1581. Already the enemy had gained the ramparts, and 
were fighting their way down through a house, built against 
the wall, Guy and his brothers resisting them, step by 
step. But they were not strong enough to keep back the 
human flood which poured in from above. " Fire the 
house," shouted the hero to his townsmen below, and next 
moment the smoke was rising thick and fast. In vain his 
friends called upon Guy to fretreat The wild sounds of 
fighting continued, the cries, the blows. Then when the 
flames had caught the old wooden roof, and were lighting 



220 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

up the street, the crowd, which had gathered, beheld high 
up on the Tour de Seyrac, the form of a woman with a 
child clasped in her arms. There was a sudden hush. 
Then cries broke forth. " Gloire a la Liberatrice d'Auril- 
lac ! " Guy heard it, saw the wondrous light which 
streamed from the black face beneath the golden helmet. 
The Huguenots heard it, and gave a howl of terror and 
despair. Then the roof fell in, the vision faded. . . . 
When they found him among the ashes, they knew him 
by a ring given him only a few days before, by his 
fiancee Mademoiselle de Cayrols. And on the spot, just 
beneath the Tower of Seyrac where he lay, the people of 
Aurillac erected a chapel, and above, on the wall, planted 
a cross, and every year ^on the 5 th August, a procession 
was held in memory of Guy de Veyre, and in honour of 
Notre Dame la Protectrice d' Aurillac. In the Hotel de 
Ville hangs the portrait of the hero, and above it the 
trumpet with which the enemy had sounded the pre- 
mature call of " Ville Gagnee," and so aroused the 
town. 

As for La Chapelle d'Aureinques, as the memorial build- 
ing was called, even the Revolution had the decency to spare 
that, and it still remains one of the most revered spots in 
Aurillac. 

It will already have been seen, that the town by the 
Jordanne is by no means the uninteresting place I, at first, 
thought it to be. Indeed, by the time I sat down to my 
late dinner, my head was giddy with stories ; some grue- 
some enough, like that of Anne Moles, who stole the head 
of her murdered husband from the spike above the Porte 
Saint Marcel, where it had been exposed by the Huguenot 
executioner. As I glanced out at the darkening quay, I 
could fancy her hurrying home with her prize, through the 



MARIE DE SENECTAIRE 221 

gloom, to the black hung oratory she and her children had 
prepared for it. There, we are told, they prayed and wept 
before the ghastly relic, till at last they were forced to bury 
it. 

And there are all those naughty stories told about Marie 
de Senectaire and her nuns, who held such " high jinks " 
in the Convent de Buis, scandalizing the worthy towns- 
people with their gay doings. What fun they had, with 
their masques and their concerts ! Marie herself played 
the guitar and sang charming love songs, and even used to 
go to see the performances of those shocking Enfants Sans- 
Souci, when they came from Paris. Indeed, I am afraid 
the doings of this Abbess of Buis, and those of her friends 
the Monks of the neighbouring monastery,! would have made 
poor Saint Geraud turn in his grave, could he have known 
of them ! But they were caught at last ! Someone 
reported the all too fascinating Marie to le Bailli Royal, 
and a commission was called to inquire into her conduct. 
I am afraid she had a bad time of it ! In her wardrobe they 
found gay silks and satins, and dresses with transparent 
sleeves, and other atrocities ill becoming a grave and 
reverend Abbess ! Ah, well, it was all part of the pleasure- 
loving character of Aurillac ! No doubt these monks and 
nuns danced the Bourree.. and even perhaps the Goignade, 
which so shocked the sober-minded Flechier of later days, 
who described it as an imitation of the dances of the 
Bacchantes. 

Everyone dances the Bourree at Aurillac. You have only 
to look in at one of the little cafes, which line the quay, to 
witness it. Sometimes they will dance to a concertina, 
sometimes to a fiddle, occasionally two or three women 
will sing the tune, as they sit watching. But the proper 
instrument, as in all Celtic lands, is the Musette, the small 



222 A.UVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

bagpipe, whose shrill notes seem to rouse the dancers as no 

other SOUnds ean do. 

The Bourree is essentially one of those survivals which 

we find among primitive people, such as the Celts of Cantal, 
All true dances are, of eourse, symbolical] since dancing 

was originally a religious act, Hut the Bourree is particu- 
larly suggestive and charming. As you watch it, you see 
before you, all the romance oi an A.uvergnat courtship, 

The man, his Stick hanging to his wrist, danees proudly 
and boldly, now and then uttering a cry -u\d holding out 
his arms. The girl avoids him, runs from him, then again 
approaches, and tries to tempt him by all sorts of coquettish 
wiles. But the dance must be seen to be appreciated. 
The Bourree of the town, too. is scarcely the real thin;;. 
You should go to some village fete, or to one o( those winter 
evenings, described by Vermenou.e, when the women sit 
spinning; in the firelight, and the men talk about their cattle 
and their land. Perhaps you know the scene — the vast, 
oak-panelled kitchen, with its heavy beams, and, ranged 
along the wall, the high cupboard beds, with their bright 
quilts and little curtains, reminding us ot Brittany : the 
polished chestnut cupboards and glittering locks, the great 
cavernous chimney and raised hearth, the red glow of the 
copper, the dancing oi' the flames. On one side the fire, 
with his wife opposite him, sits the head of the family. 
Perhaps it is the old grandfather himself, or it ma)- be 
FatHCU (as the eldest son is called in the patois), lainat, 
who has remained at home on the land, keeping open 
house for his brothers, providing dots for his sisters. We 
recognize him at once with his : 

"Collier Jo b.irbe, epais et dur 
Le vent et le soleil, la pluie et le grand air 



ARSENE VERMENOUZE 223 

L'avait rendu sec et noiraud, comme un grillon : 
La paume de ses mains dtait rude et gercee, 
Mais le bleu de son ceil, comme un matin de juin, 
Etait demeurd jeune, et clair, et lumineux." 

(Vermenouze.) 

And there you will see the Bourree danced as it used 
to be danced at Carlat, by Queen Margot and her lover 
d'Aubiac, to the sound of a musette, played as only an 
Auvergnat and a Scotchman can play it. You will hear 
stones, too, such as you will hear nowhere else, and if you 
had been there a year or two ago, you might have met the 
master singer, Arsene Vermenouze, himself, without whose 
help it is impossible to become acquainted with the real 
life of Auvergne. 

For myself, I found all that is now left of the poet, in a 
dark bookshop in the Rue Lacoste. They lie before me 
as I write, the simple volumes, and I touch them lovingly, 
for to me they represent Auvergne. There is the great 
thick book, loosely bound in white paper, and on the cover 
the name: "Jous la Cluchado" which is Auvergnat for 
" Beneath the Thatch." " A collection of patois verses," 
said a learned Frenchman condescendingly, when I spoke 
of them. Say, rather, a translation of the whole mystery 
of the charm of Auvergne ! So before we leave Aurillac, 
where he lived and wrote, let me introduce you to Arsene 
Vermenouze. 

I was to have met him this spring, but Death forestalled 
me ; and I can only picture him as he has been drawn by 
others, lean, bony, sunburned, with bright gentle eyes, and 
the bold features of the men of Cantal. As to his verse, 
the land where he was born is the beginning and end of 
his song. He fell in love with her in early youth, worshipped 
her whole-heartedly, and remained faithful to the end. As 



224 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

Jean Ajalbert says : " Tous ses vers sont toujours pour 
ses premieres amours." Hence both his strength and 
weakness. Only those who love the beauty of simplicity 
can appreciate Vermenouze. His method is his own. He 
wastes no time over extraneous matters, which others can 
handle better than he, but goes straight to work at a picture, 
which he paints as no one else has ever done or ever will 
do. For he has chosen a subject familiar to him from 
childhood ; the daily life, the joys, the sorrows, hopes and 
cares of the peasants of Auvergne. Hence he works upon 
the foundation of all beauty, unerring truthfulness. His 
kitchens are fragrant with the fresh bread which is being 
baked in the oven. At church, he feels the prayers welling 
up in his heart, as he sits in the old pew, where his fathers 
have sat before him. He tells of the washing-day down 
by the river, of his mother in all the splendour of her 
Sunday costume, of the ploughing and the sowing, of the 
slow-pacing oxen, " their eyes still full of the visions of the 
night." In short, he makes one acquainted with all the 
joy and beauty of this simple patriarchal existence. If 
one does not care for such a life, one will not appreciate 
Vermenouze, for he has no other songs to offer us, though, 
beneath the simplicity, we shall often catch glimpses of 
profound meaning. There is a little poem, in "Mon 
Auvergne," which occurs to me in connection with this 
distinctive quality. It is called "En Famille." Beside 
the hearth, sits the poet, watching his sister and niece 
mending and patching old clothes, for the home was a 
humble one. 

" Ce soir la, je couvais d'un cerveau paternel, 
Des vers que je sentais palpiter, pres d'e'clore, 
Et qui me semblaient beaux, n'etant pas nes encore. ..." 

And as he sits thinking about his new song, the sight 



ARSENE VERMENOUZE 225 

of the two women at their work strikes him as low 
and sordid : 

" Oh ! comme ce travail me semblait puenl ! " 

It is a cold night, and presently to the door comes 
a beggar : 

" Le spectre frissonnant de la Misere en deuil." 

In a moment the niece has led the old man to the 
fire, given him a bowl of soup, and, while he eats it, 
has climbed the ladder four steps at a time, and from 
the attic fetched a warm pair of stockings, which she 
puts on the old frozen feet. Presently, when the 
beggar is dozing, and the women are mending his coat, 
Vermenouze turns once more to his verse-making. But, 
alas ! its charm has departed. How poor does any 
poem seem before the living poem of his niece, with 
her knitting and her patching. And as he watches her 
kneeling at the feet of the old man, putting on the 
stockings she has made, he feels his intellectual pride 
sink away like a wave, and his verses seem cold and 
lifeless as a rusty sword hilt. 

It is of such homely scenes that Vermenouze sings. 
There is " La Quete," one of the most beautiful poems, 
showing the charity which exists among these people 
one for another; and "Solitude," an exquisite picture 
of the old home with its hospitable roof, " beloved of 
swallows," and the broad eaves, " suitable for the build- 
ing of nests." And though there are no love songs 
of his own (for Vermenouze remained faithful to 
his dear land), yet he can sing them for his young 
countrymen : — 

" Les cheveux de ma mie 
Sont d'or luisant et pur, 

15 



226 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

Plus blonds que le seigle, 
Que n'est le froment mtir ; 
C'est d'or, comme son coeur, 
Que sont ses fins cheveux. 
Songeant a son oeil bleu, 
Je ne songe a rien plus. 

Du nom de mon aimee 
Ma bouche est parfume'e 
Comme une fleur d'avril, 
Et garde un gout de miel, 
Rien que d'avoir nomine 
Ma mie et mon amide ; 
Quand elle est avec moi 
Je me crois dans le ciel." 

In his hunting songs Vermenouze excels, for he was 
a very Nimrod, this poet of Auvergne. There is a 
picture of him given by, I think, Ajalbert. For weeks 
he would be full of business (he was a distiller, and 
had a shop at Aurillac), when one autumn evening, the 
nomad, which was in him, would awake. Taking down 
a gun, he would whistle to one of his dogs, and 
disappear. For days nothing would be heard of him. 
Then, as suddenly as he had gone, he would return, a 
feather in his cap, his bag heavy with game. And 
while his old servant took out the partridges, he would 
seat himself before his desk, and write down the verses 
he had composed while wandering among the mountains. 
For, as he himself says, " Even if I do not always bring 
back hares, partridges, grouse, I can at least find plenty 
of verses. 1 pluck them by handfuls and dozens . . . 
I study the rocks, listen to the song of jays, and little 
larks, till the great Book of the Good God, with its 
pages of woods, meadows, rivers and skies opens wide 
before me." 



ARSENE VERMENOUZE 227 

And, indeed, it is a very faithful translation of this 
Book of the Good God which Vermenouze has given 
us. The work having been a labour of love, has resulted 
in a thing of beauty. 

Yet the fame of Vermenouze has not spread far beyond 
his native country, and this partly because his best songs 
are sung in his mother tongue, the old Latin patois, 
with its curious mingling of Celtic and Germanic 
words, which is the true speech of Auvergne. The 
poet found the poor old language in a deplorable 
condition, without a literature, or any fixed rules of 
spelling. But for Vermenouze it was the one language 
in the world : " To love one's language is to love one's 
old Mother, one's clock tower, one's home." So he took 
the poor despised tongue, and in it wrote his verses. 
It has, perhaps, hampered him as to subject, for the 
vocabulary is very scanty, limited to the needs of a 
simple pastoral race. There are, for instance, no words 
for "painter," "musician," "poet," "philosopher," though 
there are plenty to describe the life and surroundings 
of the peasant. But it is partly because of these very 
limitations, that Vermenouze has so admirably caught 
the spirit of Auvergne. His poems have the same grand 
simplicity, which characterizes those of Burns and Allan 
Ramsay. There is no straining after effect; he paints 
what he sees and knows, with the only colours he has 
at hand. He sings as the birds sing, or as David sang, 
while yet he kept the sheep of his father Jesse. And 
because his song is a true song, taught by nature 
herself, the song we all love best at heart, I believe 
the simple poems of Vermenouze will live when many 
grander and more artificial works will have been 
forgotten. 



228 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 



CINDERELLA 

" La vole, la Marianne- 
La vole, mais 1'aurai ! 
" One morning fair I took my love 
To a fountain cool, mid the forest gloom, 
Where purple thyme and genesta flowers 
Breathe through the air their sweet perfume. 

Forth from the rock, the water springs, 
Scattering itself o'er the golden sand, 
Only the nightingale comes at eve, 
To drink alone, in this forest land. 

And there, I bathed your hair, my love ! 
I bathed your hair and your little feet, 
Your pretty hands and your rosy face, 
I washed your fair face, oh my sweet ! 

And when I saw you on the hill, 
I took your curls for the sunbeams gay, 
And your lips, beloved, made me think 
Of strawberries, so ripe they lay ! 

I gathered flowers of every hue, 
Not garden flowers, but fresh and wild, 
And in a garland wove my flowers, 
And caught you weeping, as you smiled. 

Weeping for joy — is it not true ? 

To see yourself so fair, my own ! 

The rose of love on your peach bloom cheek, 

Your dear heart beating for me alone. 

And now, with ribboned cap all white, 
Your two little sabots, neat and small, 
And the four thick coils of your golden chain, 
Which o'er your flower-trimmed bodice fall, 



ARSENE VERMENOUZE 229 

You are no more a shepherdess ! 
And the folks will smile as we wander free, 
Saying : ' Look how he takes his bride on his arm, 
How fair she is, how tender he ! ' 

For the fount, in which your face I lave, 
Is the fairy fountain of purity, 
The fountain of poetry and truth, 
Of youth and immortality." 

Arsene Vermenouze 



CHAPTER XII 

Vic-sur-Cere — Naucelles — Cologne — Marmagnac — The Castle of 
Tournemine — Saint-Cernin — Salers — A Mountain Dairy Farm 

THERE is a certain road, leading north from Aurillac, 
which has always excited my imagination. On the 
Carte Taride, it looks like a wriggling red worm, and my 
experience told me that a road so indicated, was sure to be 
more interesting than the straight switchbacks so beloved 
of motorists. When I suggested this route, my husband 
demurred, as I knew he would. 

" But what about Vic ? " he objected. " Do you mean 
to say that you are going to leave the valley of the Cere, 
one of the most picturesque drives in Auvergne, for a road 
of which you know nothing, except that, as far as I can 
see, it turns and twists round breakneck hills, like a 
dilapidated corkscrew ? " 

This was certainly a difficulty. I did want to see Vic, 
the little town, celebrated, even in Roman times, for its 
medicinal waters. It was to Vic that Queen Margot came 
for a change of air, during her stay at Carlat : the quiet 
townspeople have scarcely yet forgotten the fetes organized 
in her honour by the Governor, Monsieur de Lignerac. 
Here it was she learned to dance the Bourree, and 
was so charmed with it, that, later, she introduced it 
at Court. 

Just outside Vic, too, are the ruins of the Castle of 

Muret, where the wicked Baron of Tournemine cut off the 

230 



VIC-SUR-CERE 231 

hand of a certain officer named Loup, who had offended 
him. " No wolf enters my castle, without leaving his 
paw behind ! " said he, with a grim jest on the soldier's 
name. 

And there is a fine church at Vic, an ancient church, 
sculptured with those monstrosities, so dear totheAuvergnat 
of the twelfth century ! No doubt it was here the Queen 
of Navarre, and the other heroes and heroines of the 
neighbourhood, went on Sundays to confess their sins, so 
that they might begin again with a clear slate on Monday 
morning. 

Not far off is the Castle of Cropieres, where once lived, 
and, as the country people will tell you, still lingers 
Marie Angelique de Scorailles de Roussille, Duchesse de 
Fontanges, the beautiful black-eyed mistress of Louis XIV. 
It is said that, on stormy nights, she still holds her mad 
revels in the castle, and has been recognized by the well- 
known head dress, named after her, " La Fontanges." 

All that valley of the Cere is wonderful, and the road as 
it climbs upward, affords exquisite glimpses of the Plomb 
de Cantal. 

But I had made up my mind to investigate that queer 
twisting worm of a road. Besides, I wanted to see Mauriac. 
And I had my way, as, according to my husband, I 
usually have ! And what a way it proved ! 

There was Naucelles, with its little church, dedicated to 
Saint Christopher, containing an ancient chapel to the 
Virgin. Connected with this chapel, I have read a beautiful 
story. It appears that at Naucelles lived an orphan girl 
called Mongette. As she was delicate the old priest 
adopted her, and it was her duty to keep the chapel sweet 
and clean, and the altar of the Virgin adorned with fresh 
flowers. It was at the time when the English were 



232 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

ravaging Auvergne, and it so happened that a handsome 
officer and his men were despatched from Aurillac, to 
protect little Naucelles. The expected enemy, however, 
not arriving, presently the soldiers returned to the city, 
and then it was that Mongette discovered that she could 
not forget the young man. His handsome face, as she had 
seen it in church, haunted her, even coming between her 
and her prayers. For a time, she struggled with herself, 
till at last, finding resistance useless, she made up her mind 
to follow her lover. The night before she left, she brought 
the keys of the chapel, and laid them at the feet of the 
statue. " I am not worthy ! " she said, " I am not worthy j 
Take them, and find someone purer to serve at Thine 
altar." 

Two months followed, months of delirious happiness, 
spent with her lover in Aurillac. Then came the end. 
The young officer fell in a skirmish, and Mongette, left 
desolate, knew not where to hide her shame. At last, 
starving, she wandered back to Naucelles. 

" Do you remember a girl called Mongette, who once 
lived here ? " she asked the sexton, who was diggnig a 
grave. 

" Why, surely ! " said the old man, " My memory is 
not so bad as that., Mongette? She passed me just 
now on her way to chapel. A holy maid is Mongette, 
a saint if ever there was one. It was a blessed day for 
Naucelles, when Monsieur le Cure took her for his 
daughter." 

For a moment, Mongette stood staring at the old man. 
Then thinking he had lost his reason, she turned away. 
The church door stood open, and with a strange feeling of 
hope she ventured in, and made her way toward the 
Chapel of the Virgin. There lay the keys, just as she had 



COLOGNE 233 

left them months ago, while kneeling before the altar 
was a curiously familiar form. Mongette felt her knees 
tremble beneath her, as she noticed the well-remembered 
gown and the pattern of the lace on the cap. At last the 
figure rose and faced her. " Who are you ? " stammered 
the girl, gazing at the sweet grave countenance, so like, 
yet so unlike her own. 

" I am She, whom once you served ; " came the answer, 
" She to whom you gave the keys ; She, whom you have 
never forgotten altogether, even in your sin. Come back 
to me, my daughter ! You need not fear. No one knows 
that you have been away, for I myself have taken your 
place. Will you not come back and serve me as of 
old?" 

Then Mongette fell at those blessed feet, and hid her 
face for shame. And over her she felt the waving of 
hands, and heard around her the rustle of unseen wings, 
and the air was filled with music and perfume, as though 
it were the Festival of the Assumption. When, at last, 
she ventured to raise her eyes, the figure was gone, and 
she was alone with the old statue of the Virgin of 
Naucelles gazing down upon her. 

Not far from Naucelles is the village of Cologne, the 
scene of a horrible tragedy in connection with the Wars of 
Religion. It is the nth of September, and on the terrace 
of the old castle, whose square donjon may still be seen, 
twelve Huguenots have been brought out to die. They 
shew no fear, only ask that they may be allowed to pray 
together for the last time. So they kneel, and their 
voices rise and fall, in one of the old canticles still used 
by the French Protestants. At last there is silence. 
" Fire ! " and with the word nine of the prisoners are free 
for ever. But the unfortunates, who are left, are wild with 



234 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

terror. Springing up, wounded as they are, they fling 
themselves over the battlements. Two land on the rock, 
and move no more, but the third is seen running, running 
toward the river. Now he takes to the stream, struggles 
for a while, till at last his strength giving out, he is 
whirled down by the current and disappears. But one 
comes across so many stories of the kind on this road, 
that they seem scarcely worth mentioning. 

At Jussac, a pretty little old-fashioned village, we 
turned aside into a charming valley, to search for the 
remains of an old Merovingian fortress, about which I had 
heard a story connected with a fair chatelaine of the 
romantic name of Delphine. To the right, rose cliffs 
covered with verdure, and beside us, on the left, murmured 
a brown trout stream called, I think, the Authre. By and 
by we reached the village of Marmagnac, near which the 
Castle was supposed to be. But, alas, all traces of it had 
vanished, and even the fair Delphine de Caissac herself 
was forgotten. But I am glad I have seen the valley ; it 
is a place to dream about, and picture the Lady of 
Roquenaton waking up to find her husband lying dead at 
her side, and his enemy glaring down at her, in the 
moonlight. 

The great road, when we regained it after this detour, 
was even more surprising than it looked on the map. It 
turned and doubled like a hunted hare, and must have 
puzzled our poor automobile considerably. One moment 
she found herself running northward, as she knew she 
ought to be. Then, just as visions of the Mauriac garage 
began to fill her poor expectant little bonnet, she was 
swung round a hairpin turn, and found herself going in a 
precisely reverse direction, looking down to where, 50 feet 
below, lay the road she had just traversed. Again and 



ON THE ROAD 235 

again the same thing happened. And it was all so 
meaningless, so unnecessary: the turns could have been 
so much less abrupt, the way so easily shortened, that I 
wonder the magneto didn't short circuit, or the petrol run 
out, or one of those many things happen, by which an 
automobile shows when she is out of temper ! Yet how 
beautiful was the way ! For myself, I would not have 
shortened it by an inch. Those turns, which many a poor 
horse must have found so wearisome, gave unending 
change and variety to the view. Now we pass through a 
little town, where a couple of oxen are being shod. I 
used to wonder what the great wooden cages, with their 
chains and pulleys, were intended for. There is one in 
each village. In it the ox is placed, his head tied to one 
end. He is then slung up from the ground by means of 
broad straps, the hoof is fixed comfortably, and the shoe 
nailed on. At first I carefully avoided the sight, it seemed 
so cruel. But I really do not think it is ; only an ox, like 
a camel, has a natural objection to anything out of the 
ordinary way. I have never heard a sound uttered during 
the process, and when one comes to realize the adoration 
of the Auvergnat for his cattle, one ceases to fear for them. 
These people of Cantal hate parting with their money, 
and it is not at all uncommon for a farmer to put off 
sending for a doctor, for himself or one of his family, till it 
is too late. But directly a cow or an ox is in the least 
indisposed, he calls in the best assistance, quite regardless 
of expense ! 

All along the road, we kept meeting hay waggons, 
drawn by slow heavy cream-coloured beasts, their faces 
hidden by long veils of knotted cords, to keep off the 
flies ; their only harness, the rope by which their great 
lyre-shaped horns are lashed to the yoke. They take the 



236 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

middle of the road, and directly the car sounds her 
warning note, the driver, who walks at their head, lays his 
stick on the bar of wood in the direction he wants them to 
move, and the huge beasts slouch clumsily aside and make 
way for us to pass. 

Look at that great donjon keep over there on the other 
side of the valley ! It is Chateau d'Anjony, Froissart's 
Castle of Tournemine. They say there were five such 
here originally, belonging to five brothers, who, like true 
Auvergnats, were always quarrelling among themselves. 
This particular fortress is the only one which remains, and 
a wonderful place it is, reminding one, in its general form, 
of the Tower of London, with a great turret at each 
corner, and within, dark ancient chambers fnrnished with 
rare tapestry, and old portraits of forgotten tyrants, who 
levied blackmail on travellers in olden days. It is worth 
a visit, if only as being the scene of almost the last act in 
the life of our old friend Amerigot Marche, of whom we 
have heard so much in this book. It was down this very 
road, " Le Roi des Pillards," as he was called, came riding 
one evening in 1390, attended only by a page. He was 
broken and ruined, and finding himself homeless, came in 
his tribulation to beg shelter of his cousin german Jean 
de Tournemine. As we photographed the fortress, we 
pictured the robber chiefs surprise and rage, when he 
found himself trapped. He had already pulled off his 
sword, and cleaned himself, says Froissart, when he asked: 
"Where is my cousin Tournemine?" 

" He is in his chamber," replied the varlet. " Come and 
see him." 

" With all my heart ! " cried Amerigot, heartily, " it is a 
long time since we met." 

So he laid aside his coat of mail, donned another suit, 



AMERIGOT MARCHE 237 

and followed the servant to his cousin's room. But, 
arrived there, he soon found out his mistake. Jean well 
knew that his kinsman's day was over, and had no mind 
to offend the king, or give his enemy shelter. So he cried 
roughly, "How is this, Amerigot ; who has sent for you? 
I arrest you as my prisoner. You are a wicked traitor ; 
you have broken the truce and shall suffer for it." It was 
a mean trick to play, and in spite of Amerigot's many 
crimes, one cannot but be sorry for the old lion, betrayed 
at last in such a miserable and unworthy fashion. 

" Why, Tournemine," he cried, " I am your cousin. Are 
you doing this to try me ? " But he might as well have 
spoken to the walls. Quickly he was seized, fettered and 
thrown into one of the dungeons, which still lie at the 
base of those high towers. And when the Duke of Berri 
heard of it, which he did as soon as a horseman could 
gallop his way to Paris, he sent word to the Seneschal of 
Auvergne to deliver Amerigot into his hands. And so he 
was taken northward to Paris, probably by this very road 
we are travelling. I don't suppose he felt very cheerful as 
he rode along, for well he knew what his end would be. 
I daresay he wished the road was even longer than it is ! 
Perhaps he and his guards stopped at Saint-Cernin, this 
little town with its magnificent wood-carving. Shall we 
too enter the church and look at it ? 

Though the morning is fine, the oak is so black, we 
have much ado in photographing the exquisite lace-like 
detail of the Jesse Tree. A nice-looking woman is 
dusting, and shows us a curious double picture, represent- 
ing Saint Roch with Saint Leobard, the old anchorite we 
found at Marmoutier. It seems he is quite a hero at 
Saint-Cernin, possessing a legend all his own. Just outside 
the village there is a little spring, where he had his hut 



238 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

He was a very holy hermit, and spent so long over his 
prayers, that he had no time to work for a living. So 
every day he went round with a begging bowl. At last, 
the women, who were a thrifty race, and, like most thrifty 
people, inclined to be intolerant, put their heads together. 
"Why should we feed this lazy fellow?" said they, and 
next day, when the Saint appeared as usual, each woman 
had ready her saucepan of boiling water, which she flung 
in his face ! This was too warm a reception for Leobard, 
and he lost his temper ! Like many of the primitive 
saints, he had preserved some of the characteristics of 
that particular nature god he had supplanted. So he had 
no difficulty in avenging himself. For forty days and 
nights it rained mud over the valley, till the Doire rushed 
swollen and yellow through the ruined cornfields, and the 
people of Saint-Cernin began to fear that their very 
village would be washed away. Then, at their prayers, 
the Saint relented, the deluge ceased, the sun shone 
out, and the river retired once more into its wonted 
channel ! 

I think it was just outside the village of Saint-Martin 
that a tyre burst ! A priest was passing at that moment, 
and fell back as though shot. "What was that?" he 
cried, as we stopped. "What was that?" In spite of our 
vexation, we could not help smiling at his fear. "Oh, it 
was only a tyre ! " said my husband, bitterly, as he began 
unstrapping the Stepney. " Mon Dieu ! " cried the priest, 
then in a tone of relief, " I thought it was a cannon ! " 
The sound had brought quite a little crowd around us, 
who looked on with intense interest, as the Stepney was 
fitted, one old man remarking to another : " II faut £tre au 
courant, pour se faire chaffeur ! " I noticed two little boys 
who were puzzling over the number plate. 



SAINT-MARTIN 239 

" Qu'est-ce-que c'est ? " asked one. " 653 F ? " 

" Oui," answered the other, " mais c'est une jolie auto- 
mobile. Si elle a coute 653 francs, ce n'est pas trop cher, 
mon pauvre Jacques ! " 

By the time the car was once more on her feet, we found 
ourselves the centre of such enthusiastic interest, that it 
was necessary to abandon the idea we had formed of 
lunching at Saint-Martin, and hurry on to Salers. The 
little crowd gave a shout as they saw us start, and even 
Monsieur le Cure, who had regained his composure, and 
had been watching as eagerly as the rest, waved his broad 
felt hat, and wished us "bon voyage." As the horn 
sounded, I heard the boy mutter, with the air of a con- 
noisseur, as he clutched Jacques by the arm, " Non, 
assurement, ce n'est pas trop cher ! Elle est superbe ! 
Superbe ! " 

One boy had climbed up on the luggage carrier, and 
seated himself on my suit case. As the car sprang quickly 
off, there was a cry. "Geraud! Geraud!" screamed a 
chorus of little girls, and next moment there was a bump, 
and, looking back, I saw a motherly little person, with a 
figure like a bolster, and an apron big enough for her 
grandmother, smacking the unlucky Geraud, as he 
sprawled in the dust, and calling out the Auvergnat 
equivalent for : " She'd tell his mother, see if she didn't ! 
And wouldn't he get what for, when his father saw how he 
had torn his trousers ! " 

I don't think there can be any place more beautiful 
than Salers, or one more altogether suggestive ! Let 
me try and picture the scene, as I saw it that summer 
day. 

Our road, after a final twist, had settled down to business, 
and, after a run of some miles, had entered an exquisite 



240 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

valley, broad and undulating, dotted with farms and tiny- 
villages. It is the meeting-place of the three streams — the 
Maronne, the Aspres and the Malrien, which have wound 
their way through gorges in the distant hills, to water this 
rich Canton of Salers. All around the hay is sweet. 
Once we stop beside a meadow, and I go and bury my 
face in the dry scented grass, much to the amusement of 
the farmer and his family. 

" Madame would like to stop and help us to turn 
the hay ? " asks a young girl, watching me as she 
leans on her fork. Then as I rise and go over to 
look at the magnificent oxen, who are lazily feed- 
ing from an enormous heap which has been piled 
before them, she tells me proudly, how her father owns 
the handsomest " betail " in Salers, and, as everyone 
knows, the cattle of Salers are the finest in the world. 
I stroke the glistening red coats of the gentle beasts, 
and look around. And it is then, for the first time, 
I see Salers as it is. 

Like a sentinel it stands on its lofty pedestal of basalt, 
keeping guard over the valley, as it has done for a 
thousand years. Grim and black, silhouetted against the 
sapphire sky. An old warrior in his ancient armour ! 
And it is so bristling with pointed turrets, so protected by 
battlements and forts, that one hesitates to approach the 
still formidable gateway by which it is entered. Within, 
the streets are narrow, steep and winding, and almost 
every house fortified, as it had need to be when the town 
was built in the thirteenth century. Here is the church 
where the lords of Salers came with their households to 
hear Mass. From that old belfry, the tocsin was sounded, 
when the English came to besiege Salers. Outside, in 
the narrow street, I find a little book-shop, and as I look 



SALERS 241 

over the poor collection of postcards, Madame tells me how 
the Huguenots attacked the town in the sixteenth century, 
and were routed by the brave Le Bargue. Seeing me 
interested, she slips her ball of worsted in her apron 
pocket, and, still knitting, strolls up the street, by my side, 
to show me the place where the hero fell. He had been 
wounded in the stomach so horribly, that no one but a 
Frenchwoman could have described his condition in 
polite language ! But, amid his agony, he still fought on. 
"En avant, au nom du Seigneur!" cried he, as with one 
hand spread over his gaping wound, and the other still 
grasping his sword, he hurled himself down upon the 
Calvinists. And so the town was saved, and Salers could 
still boast itself a " Virgin City." 

At the top of the street we came to " La Tour de 
l'Horloge," black and forbidding as when the Republican 
soldiers passed beneath it on their way to the square, 
round which are still grouped the principal houses. What 
fortresses they inhabited in those days ! Truly their house 
was their castle. Yet the solid walls and towers availed 
little when the days of the Terror came. This old place, 
with its fountain, has seen some terrible sights — mothers 
sobbing over their dead sons ; husbands parted from their 
wives ; children crying for bread, and no one daring to give 
it for fear of being declared suspect. Here was planted 
the tree of liberty, and these stones ran red with 
blood, and the wine stolen from the cellars of the 
aristocrats ! 

I believe we had lunch at Salers — in fact we must have 
done — but I forget where, or of what it had consisted. 
I wandered about the old town in a dream, looking up at 
the curtainless windows, and the rich mouldings and 
escutcheons on the doors. 
16 



242 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

At last I found myself on the Promenade de Barrouze, 
gazing out over the valley. 

" Grow old along with me, 
The best is yet to be, 
The last of life for which the first was made." 

That expresses Salers as we see it to-day. 

Above on the high towers, the ivy, like the long hair of 
some ancient Celt, sways gently in the breeze. Tufted 
pink valerian is doing its best to fill up the rents in the 
battlemented walls. Ringdoves are cooing in an ancient 
lime-tree, possibly planted by Henry of Navarre to 
celebrate the birth of his son Louis ; and a humble bee is 
forcing his way into the gay snapdragons, which shut their 
doors against him. Round the fountain which once ran 
wine, wine often mingled with blood, children are playing ; 
I can hear their voices. And the Cure is walking up and 
down in the sunshine, reading his breviary. See, he has 
just noticed me, and taken off his broad beaver hat. How 
peaceful everything is ! How different from the past ! 
" We must grow better as we grow older," says Browning, 
and surely the old Sentinel on the hill, resting after 
his rough and tumble existence, has advanced very far 
from the days of his fiery youth ! His hot passions and 
fierce struggles are over, together with the warfare, the 
fighting, and the glory. Dear old fellow, he did his best ! 
His nobles, in their uncouth way, guarded the valley, and 
protected the peasants from worse foes, though, to be sure, 
it was much as a slave owner protects his slaves. And the 
peasants ? When they had had enough of it, they rose 
against the nobles, taking a vengeance all the more 
terrible, because the centuries of wrong had to be ex- 
piated in a few months. And all the time the church 
was acting as mediator, sometimes with more success, 



SALERS 243 

sometimes with less, and the " sentinel " was learning 
his lesson. 

And now, to-day, though he still wears his armour, it is 
only because it suits him so well, for he has a touch of 
vanity, look you, this old warrior Salers, and loves to hear 
strangers admire and wonder at him. 

But see, Monsieur le Cure has closed his book, and is 
coming toward me. I must ask him about the Feast of 
the Nativity of the Virgin, which used to be such a feature 
in Salers, and of which I have read in Ajalbert. 

" Alas, Madame, it is all over," says he, with a smile at 
my eagerness. " Yes, it is quite true about the King and 
Queen who used to preside at it. They paid large sums 
for the honour, and still more money was wasted on the 
feasting and drinking. It is better for such customs to 
die. The people of Salers are quarrelsome, it is in the 
blood, and wine, with them, invariably leads to fighting." 

I asked him whether he thought the old custom dated 
back to prehistoric times, as is certainly the case at 
Vassivieres, and in Berry, where, as is well known, many 
districts have their " King " and " Queen," who purchase 
their short-lived royalty at an auction held each year, 
and are proclaimed by the sound of bagpipes and haut- 
boys. But I don't think he knew very much about the 
matter, and merely said that the custom was probably 
very ancient, and like all ancient things, had need of 
reform. 

He knew much more about the cows, which he referred 
to as " les Salers " (just as we say " the Jerseys ") and 
accompanied us some way on our road, to show us a 
" buron " and explain the method of making the cheese. 

As in most mountain districts, the valleys of Auvergne 
are not used for pasturing the cows, but are mown twice 



244 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

in the season, to provide for the needs of winter, while 
the cows are taken up among the hills, to the high pastures 
or " pacages " where are situated the " burons." 

It is a charming sight in May to see the herds starting 
on their summer outing. For days the cows have been 
refusing their hay. The ray of sunshine, which has found 
its way into the brown darkness of their winter quarters, 
has roused all their primitive instincts for freedom. Before 
them rise visions of delicious fresh grass, the freedom of 
the hills, the joys of motherhood. As you pass through 
the villages you can hear them moving restlessly, and 
lowing in their stalls. At last comes the wished-for 
morning ! The priest arrives and blesses them, the cow- 
keeper and his assistant, with their dogs, join the cavalcade, 
and off they go ! 

You can never realize how charming is the sight until 
you have witnessed it. It is the only time one ever sees 
the great lethargic beasts really excited. They move 
quite quickly, swaying from side to side in their eagerness 
to reach the well-remembered pasture. Now a cow stops 
to crop a mouthful of grass by the roadside, just a "hors 
d'ceuvre " to whet her appetite for what is coming. A dog 
spies her, and comes fussily up to remonstrate at the 
delay. Out goes a heel, and round comes a horn ; but 
you can see from her very eye that she doesn't mean it. 
Everything is a joke to-day, and besides after all the 
dog is right. She would not lose a moment of her 
summer life for the world ! 

A broad rolling wind-swept pasture, reminding one 
somewhat of our downland, only wilder, more angular, 
and everywhere are cows ! 

" Is there not a danger of their straying away ? " I ask 



A CHEESE FARM 245 

Monsieur le Cur6, who by this time is accustomed to 
the automobile, and ready to talk on his favourite 
subject. 

" Oh no ! Each herd keeps together on its feeding 
ground. They are so intelligent — these mountain cows. 
Every one knows her name, and, when called, comes lowing 
to be milked." 

And now, sheltered by a bouquet of pine-trees, we 
come upon a tiny cottage, its heavy thatch reaching 
almost to the ground. As I turn from the pretty sight 
without, I find that Monsieur le Cure and my husband 
have entered, and follow them. 

A low dark cabin, with a rude hearth, beside which 
is a miserable bed. Other furniture there is absolutely 
none, save a couple of stools and the various utensils 
used for cheese-making. There are the pails in which 
the milk is received, "guerlous" as they are called, and 
there are the wooden vessels, the " gerles," into which 
the pails are emptied. The pressing of the curd is done 
by means of a bar of wood and some heavy stones. 
Above, on a shelf, are piled the great blocks of finished 
cheese, the " fourmes." I am afraid I did not study the 
process very closely, in spite of the priest's minute ex- 
planations. I was trying to picture to myself what the 
life of these men must be like, during the four or five 
months they spend in the mountains. How lonely, when 
the grey mists come creeping down the hillside, blotting 
out the view of the valley, and isolating the " buron " as 
though it were on a desert island ! Yet they probably do 
not feel it. After all it is a natural life, such as that 
lived by the first of the new race who came, bringing 
cows to Cantal. In some such hovel he lived, and some 
such uncouth tongue he spoke. His food, also, was of 



246 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

hard black bread, and the trebly-skimmed milk which an 
English pig would refuse with scorn. He clothed himself 
in much the same fashion as this " buronnier," who sits 
stolidly working away at the curd, taking no notice of 
us after the first sharp glance and grunt of welcome. 
He sang, no doubt, the same yoddling ditty as I heard 
the " boutilier " singing when we drove up. 

Indeed, if you want to study the ways of the primitive 
dairy farmer, you can scarcely do better than visit the 
" burons " of Cantal. You will find plenty to interest 
you. There are the calves, a never-failing source of 
delight ! When milking time comes round, each little 
one is brought out from the " vedelat " (or nursery, where 
the calves sleep) and given over to its mother for a few 
minutes. Then it is taken and tied to her front leg, 
where she continues to lick it contentedly, while the 
" vacher " proceeds with his milking. 

And there are the great cows themselves, so different 
from our gentle Alderneys. Sometimes it so happens 
a wolf finds his way into the pasture. Instantly the 
cows surround him, heads down, horns forward, in a solid 
bristling circle. When all are ready, down they close 
upon him, and in a few moments, all that is left of the 
enemy is a torn and bloody wolf-skin ! 

And in the evening, if you understand Auvergnat, there 
are the stories. For when once he grows accustomed to 
your presence, the "buronnier" is a great "raconteur," 
and will hold forth by the hour on the subject of the 
" drac " and the black goat, and above all, on cases where 
the cattle have been overlooked by the Evil Eye ! No 
wonder he is a sorcerer ! He has to be " instruit " to protect 
his charges from the wicked wiles of stranger " buronniers " 
ever on the watch to injure him. 



A CHEESE FARM 247 

As we v/ere leaving, the first of the herd came up to the 
door. 

"How much does a cow like that cost?" said I to the 
priest, who, turning to the taciturn kneader of curd, re- 
peated the question : " Con bourez da quila batsa?" 

"Tridzi pistolas ! " said the man, with eager promptitude. 

The priest looked surprised. " He asks too much," 
said he, "they are avaricious, these mountaineers. But 
if Madame wants a cow, he will, no doubt, take less." 

J hastened to assure the worthy Cure that my question 
had been dictated merely by curiosity, and we left the 
men to their milking. 

And now we have reached the road once more, and 
are saying good-bye to the priest. " 1 feel 1 have been 
in another world," said 1, "and I owe it all to you, 
Monsieur." 

"Yes," answered the Cure, "it is probably a long 
journey between your life and that of the "vacher," but 
ail the same, Madame, he would not change for all you 
could offer him ! ;; 



CHAPTER XIII 

Mauriac — The Church — Saint Theodechilde and her Story — The 
Market at Mauriac 

THE afternoon was closing as we came within sight of 
Mauriac. Above, the pale turquoise sky was full of 
dove-coloured clouds, among which, looking like a nun in 
her winding-sheet, floated a sad-faced moon. If my mind 
had not already been full of Theodechilde, the sight of the 
" virgin huntress," watching over the city, would have 
reminded me that we were entering the domain of the 
royal maiden. 

If ever you go to Mauriac try to arrive in the evening. 
But you will be sure to do so, it lies so far from everywhere. 
Yet fourteen hundred years ago, when the daughter of 
Clovis came to take possession of Le Vieux Chateau, it 
must have been still more inaccessible, since we are told 
that the princess spent months on the journey from Paris. 
But perhaps, if you have not been to Mauriac, you scarcely 
remember who Theodechilde was ? Well, we shall soon 
renew our acquaintance with her: but not till after dinner, 
for here we are at the hotel, and here is Madame, stout and 
comely, waiting at the door to welcome us. 

The Ecu de France is a delightful inn, so old itself and 
so evidently on the site of a far older hostel, that there is 
no knowing what noted persons may not have slept in the 
quaint bedchambers in days gone by, when Mauriac was 
still a great pilgrim resort. 

Upstairs, we stumbled along dark passages, which wound 



MAURIAC 249 

their way round the vast chimney stacks of the rooms 
below, till presently Madame opened a door, and we found 
ourselves in a low oak-panelled room. How I wish I 
were back there now, looking down into the street, where 
the women are beginning to gather in groups for their 
evening gossip, and dogs are prowling about searching for 
stray scraps in the gutters ! Opposite, through an open 
window, I can watch the tailor's wife putting her children 
to bed, while below in the shop, her husband sits stitching 
busily. Why is there always such a fascination about 
looking in at other people's windows? I suppose it is 
part of the charm of doing what one knows one 
oughtn't to ! Every homely interior becomes the stage 
of some little romance, unconsciously played for our 
special delectation. 

The salle-a-manger is immense, the light of the hang- 
ing lamp reaching scarcely further than the edge of the 
white cloth, so that in the dark panelled corners I can but 
just make out a gleam of burnished copper and brass. We 
are evidently late, for the long table is scattered with empty 
bottles, and serviettes tied in every conceivable knot and 
twist. Nevertheless, the dinner itself is excellent, and we 
sit so long over it, that at last when we go out for a saunter 
round the town, it is almost dark. All down the street 
people are sitting at their doors, enjoying the warm 
summer dusk, and from more than one cafe comes the 
sound of angry voices, for are we not in "quarrelsome 
Mauriac " ! Presently we find ourselves out on the ram- 
parts, and the moon, grown bright and golden, shows 
mysterious turretted houses, and dark archways which 
perhaps lead to one of those monasteries for which Mauriac 
has always been famous. Then, at last, we reach the church 
— the beginning and end of the town. There is still a faint 



250 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

light in the windows, so let us enter and see this church of 
Theodechilde. 

Howwonderful is the porch with its sculptured tympanum, 
and rich mouldings suggesting the folds of heavy curtains. 
We are reminded, as we enter, of the foundress, for on 
either side of the magnificent west door stands a lion in 
black basalt, still guarding this Christian altar of Our 
Lady of Miracles, as, fourteen hundred years ago, the real 
lions are said to have guarded the Druid altar of Our Lady 
in the Forest. Within, all is solemn and mysterious ; great 
Roman columns soaring up into the darkness; and the 
sanctuary itself, dim and uncertain, lighted only by the 
sacred fire, and the shifting gleam of Theodechilde's candle, 
which still burns, as it has burned ever since she first 
lighted it, before the miraculous statue of Notre Dame des 
Miracles. 

There are many women praying in the church. Let 
us kneel among them, and joining in their litany, try 
to evoke the spirit of the saintly maiden we have come 
to visit. 

" Saint Theodechilde, daughter of kings, pray for us ! 

" Saint Theodechilde, follower of a blessed mother, pray for us ! 

" Saint Theodechilde, founder of monasteries, pray for us ! 

" Saint Theodechilde, builder of the Church of Mauriac, pray for us ! 

" Saint Theodechilde, liberator for captives, pray for us ! 

" Saint Theodechilde, shining lamp in the House of God, pray for us ! " 

The voices of the women still murmur on, but I have 
lost my place, and am thinking only of the little girl imitat- 
ing her mother's friend, Saint Genevieve, and making her 
vows of virginity before the Bishop of Reims, at the tender 
age of ten years. It is very restful sitting here in the 
darkness, listening to the whispering of voices, trying to 
picture the church as it was at the time of its consecration. 



SAINT THEODECHILDE 251 

I suppose it was mostly built of wood. Those vast pillars 
and barrel roof, ancient as they are, cannot date back to 
those days. But the altar stone is probably the same 
which the princess found in the forest, and as to the black 
statue of Notre Dame des Miracles, no one who has seen it 
can doubt its being that of the ancient goddess of the place, 
removed and resculptured by order of King Clovis, that 
it might preside over the new church, which his daughter 
built at Mauriacurn. 

As I gazed up at the dusky form. I pictured the 
scene. This spot had long been the sanctuary of some 
heathen deity. Here stood the sacred dolmen, where, 
probably, some ancestor chief lay buried. The Druids 
had taken possession of the tomb, using it as an altar ; 
the Romans, according to some, had raised here a statue 
to the god Mercury. Here it was that the young 
Gaulish chief Basolus came to worship, perhaps, even, 
it was here he vowed allegiance to the king of the 
Wisigoths, whom the Gauls of Cantal had come to regard 
as their overlord. But the reign of the Wisigoths was 
over, and Basolus, conquered by Thierry, son of Clovis, 
was taken away to Sens, and flung into a dungeon to 
await his doom. 

I had arrived at this point of my meditations, when 
a sudden draught caused the solitary candle before the 
altar to flare, and in the light, for a moment I seemed 
to see Theodechilde herself, ne v\y arrived to take 
possession of the Chateau de Montselis, the confiscated 
home of the unhappy Basolus ! 

She has retired to her chamber, but is too excited, by 
the strangeness of her surroundings, to sleep. The castle 
is built beside the river Auze, but all around it, is the 
forest. The sound of the whispering leaves distracts the 



252 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

thoughts of the young girl from her prayers. Rising at 
last, she goes toward the window, and opens the shutter. 
There is nothing so full of mystery as the forest at night ! 
To Theodechilde's overwrought mind, the trees seemed 
talking to one another, waving their great arms slowly 
in the wind, while ghostly clouds flitted by, and the 
moon looked down with a sidelong glance, as though 
fearful what she might see in the murky depths ! The 
princess shuddered, and her hand was already stretched 
out to close the window, when, far away, in the thickest 
part of the wood, she saw a light. It was so bright, 
so all-pervading, that it seemed to her not of this world, 
and with the ready instinct of a self-conscious sixth 
century saint of eighteen, she instantly concluded that 
here was some heavenly sign intended for herself. So 
falling on her knees, her eyes still fixed on the mysterious 
radiance, she uttered her prayer. From an ancient 
manuscript we know the very words : 

" Oh, Seigneur Dieu, who hast hidden many things 
from the wise, revealing them to the little ones, I 
believe that this vision proceeds from Thee. Grant me, 
therefore, the knowledge of it, that I may glorify Thee 
my God, and the Virgin Mary, Thy Mother." 

As soon as it was day, the young princess set off 
into the forest ; and just where she had seen the light, 
found a Druid altar, before which burned a candle, 
" brighter than any star : " while, as some say, upon the 
altar itself, was the black statue now worshipped at 
Mauriac as Notre Dame des Miracles. All this was 
wonderful enough, but it must have been still more 
startling to find a lioness, with three young lions, 
guarding the sacred place. They fled however, as 
Theodechilde made the sign of the Cross, and the girl, 



SAINT TH^ODECHILDE 253 

after returning thanks for the miracle, went back to 
the castle. 

That night, lying on her bed between sleeping and 
waking, she saw a vision — the Virgin Mary with the 
Christ Child in her arms, and before her, bearing a 
candle in one hand, and his keys in the other, Saint 
Peter. Three times they made the tour of her bed, 
then left the chamber, and from her window she saw 
them wending their way to the place of lions, while 
all the air was full of rustling wings and heavenly 
music. 

I was watching too, fascinated, when the thud of a 
padded door made me start. It was the sacristan with 
his lantern, his nailed boots resounding through the 
silent church. One by one he locked the gates of the 
chapels, and, as he did so, the women rose, signed 
themselves, and went silently out into the night like 
phantoms. As the old man returned from fastening 
the gate into the sanctuary, he saw me. " Pardon, 
Madame," he said, coming toward me, " pray do not 
disturb yourself. I can wait till you have finished your 
prayer." 

" To tell the truth I was not praying," said I, with a 
smile. " I was meditating on the life of your patron 
saint." 

" It is the same thing," answered the sacristan, 
" Monseigneur l'Archipretre will have no one disturbed in 
their meditations." 

But I had already risen. " I am coming in the 
morning," said I, " perhaps you will then show me 
round the church, and tell me the history of Saint 
Theodechilde." 

" Tres volontiers, Madame ! But you must see 



254 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

Monseigneur himself. II sera ravi de vous dormer 
des renseignements au sujet de notre patronne, 
bien-aimde ! " 

For a few moments longer I waited, trying to coax 
my mind back to the twentieth century. Then, still 
among the mists of the past, rose and went out. 
Passing the ancient Lanterne des Morts, which for more 
than eight hundred years was lighted every night, to 
keep watch over the graves in the churchyard, and the 
cross on which the murdered body of a former rector of 
Mauriac was nailed during the Terror, I at last regained 
the Ecu de France. 

A dance was being held at a cafe up the street, and for 
a long time the sound of the fiddles and the accordion 
kept me awake. Once there was a break in the music. 
Perhaps some fair Mauriacoise had promised the same 
dance to two partners ! At all events there was a great 
to-do about something. From the noise you would have 
thought they were murdering each other. Girls screamed, 
men shouted, all the dogs in the place woke up and 
rushed, tumultuously barking, to see the fun. Then a 
laugh broke out, another, there was a sound of glasses 
being clinked amicably, the violin tuned up, the accordion 
gave a preliminary squeak, and next moment they were 
dancing away as merrily as ever ! At last they went 
home. I could hear their voices singing down the street. 
Then a door banged, and for a moment there was silence, 
blessed silence ! But, just as I was dropping asleep, a 
dog barked, then another and another ! Between them, 
they kept it up till the cocks began crowing at three, and 
before one had grown accustomed to the different voices 
of the cocks, the early diligences and farmers' carts came 
rattling in, and cows and sheep and pigs joined in the 



MAURIAC MARKET 255 

chorus, till Maurice woke to the consciousness of its 
being Market Day ! 

Our breakfast was served in Madame's bureau, a de- 
lightful little old-fashioned room, with a huge chimney 
and red-tiled floor, and a door through which I could 
watch the white-capped cook busy among his copper pots 
and pans. Madame herself was fussing about like a 
much perturbed hen, preparing for the great weekly 
lunch to be held presently in the salle-a-manger. 

Madame was a widow, as she pathetically informed us ; 
but from the number of portly farmers she seemed to have 
tied to her black apron strings, I think the period of her 
mourning must have been drawing to a close ! I had 
arranged to accompany her to market that morning, to 
learn all about the price of butter and cheese. But, as 
she explained, it was already a little late when we 
appeared, so after she had seen us comfortably seated at 
the window with our coffee, she tied on her black hat, 
and, promising to look out for me, off she started ! 
" Fanchette, Fanchette ! " I heard her cry, as she hurried 
down the hall," Mon Dieu ! Comme tu es lente ! Allons! 
Allons, ma fille ! " and she bustled off along the street, 
followed by a buxom girl in a white cap carrying two 
immense black baskets. 

We found the market-place a seething mass of men, 
women, children, and every kind of domestic animal ! 
I despaired of ever finding my friends in such a crowd, 
and was turning away, when I heard a girl's voice : 
" Voila ! Les Anglais ! " and was hailed by a hearty 
voice, " He ! He ! Par ici, Madame, par ici ! " 

Next moment we were standing at the top of a long 
avenue of white-capped women, each seated behind a huge 
basket of eggs, a stack of butter and cheese, while at her 



256 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

side, ready to be picked up and exhibited to any would- 
be customer, lay a bunch or two of wretched fowls. And 
the talking, the clacking, the screaming, the bargaining. 
Oh, la ! la ! as Madame would have said ! If I didn't 
learn much about the price of butter, I was a good deal 
enlightened on the subject of the Cantal character ! 
Bargain ? You never heard anything like it ! 

" How much do you ask for your eggs to-day? " 

" I am selling them at a sou the piece, Madame." 

" A sou ? My poor Margot ! You must be joking ! 
And eggs like that, par exemple ! " 

" Eh bien," replies the woman, calmly, " we will say 
22 for a franc. I would not be grasping with Madame, 
who is so good a customer." 

" Oh, but I cannot ! I am not a millionaire. I am but 
a poor widow. See, I will take ten dozen, at 40 a franc ! " 

" Mais non, mais non ! The eggs are of the best. I 
might perhaps sell for 30 a franc, but not a sou less, and 
then, only because my poor Jean lost a calf last week. 
Oh Mon Dieu ! Mon Dieu ! Quel malheur ! " 

" Allons ! " exclaimed Madame, quite unmoved by the 
piteous complaint, which I suspect she had heard many 
times before. "Allons! I will take them at 35 the 
franc ! And twelve dozen, bien comptes." 

" I cannot, Madame, indeed I cannot ! It is robbing 
my Paul of his last chance of a pair of sabots for his first 
communion ! " 

And so on, and so on ! At last the bargain was 
concluded, my landlady taking a dozen more than she had 
intended, and the farmer's wife adding an extra egg for 
each franc. After watching the same process repeated 
over the week's butter and cheese, I turned to look at the 
general scene. Everyone was bargaining, the voices rose 




?' 



THE AUVERGNAT 257 

and fell. As a purchase was completed, hand was slapped 
in hand, after the old Celtic fashion you will see used at 
every fair. Often a violent quarrel arose, and, for a time, 
relations seemed so strained that one really held one's 
breath with excitement. But the dispute invariably ended 
with the shaking of hands, and, in many cases, a visit to 
the neighbouring wine-shop. For, though the Auvergnat 
is the closest-fisted man on earth, where the taking of 
money is concerned, he has his own fashion of spending it, 
and entertains royally when it suits his humour. Indeed 
he sometimes reminds me of a little boy I know, who will 
save and pinch and resort to all kinds of mean tricks the 
whole year, on purpose to be able to buy presents for his 
family at Christmas. 

Even his marriage, the Auvergnat arranges with a due 
regard to financial considerations. When a young man 
falls in love, the first thing he does is to tell his father, who, 
next day, dressed in his best, goes over to the farm of the 
prospective bride. There, carefully left to himself, he takes 
a good look at the contents of the barns and stables. 
Then, if satisfied, he will go to the house and inspect the 
linen and furniture, and finally, if all comes up to his ex- 
pectations, negotiations are begun. These are conducted 
by the lawyer, and a friend of mine has told me that it is 
not at all unusual, even at the last moment, for a marriage 
to be broken off, for the sake of a couple of pounds. 
Sometimes a pair of sabots or a new smock will be thrown 
in as a make-weight. 

Yet these mercenary marriages are by no means un- 
happy, and the home of the young people is always open 
to anyone who is in need of a meal or a night's lodging. 
This very landlady, for instance, who has just driven such 
a bargain over her week's eggs, keeps open house for any 
17 



258 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

poor old creature who comes in from the country to sell a 
hen. She will haggle over the price of the chicken for an 
hour, and then give twice its value in food and lodging. 
But see, she has finished her purchases, and is waiting for 
me. 

" I shall go to the Church," say I. " I could not see it 
last night, and Monseigneur l'Archipretre is going to tell 
me about Saint Theodechilde." 

" Bien, bien ! " she cries, evidently relieved, and with an 
" a tout a l'heure " off she goes, Fanchette following, look- 
ing like a sulky mule, with a great pannier on each side. 

Unfortunately Monseigneur was engaged in hearing 
confessions. The market women appeared to have an 
extraordinary amount on their consciences that morning ; 
and, though I waited for quite a long time, the good priest 
never came out of his retirement, and the throng of 
kneeling figures in the church never lessened. So, at last, 
the sacristan took me in charge, and showed me the Mero- 
vingian font, of painted granite, and the fetters of the two 
soldiers, delivered from their Spanish prison, because of 
their devotion to and faith in Our Lady of Miracles. As I 
looked at the heavy irons, the old man told the story. 

" They fell asleep in their prison," concluded he, " calling 
on the name of Notre Dame de Mauriac, and they woke 
here, before the very door of Her Chapel ! Is it a wonder 
that, at Her Festival, we carry before Her the fetters of 
those she so miraculously delivered ? " 

" When is the Festival ? " I asked eagerly. 

But he replied that it was in the spring, the Sunday next 
after the 9th of May. 

Finding us so interested in the church, he took us to see 
the treasures of the sacristy — the ancient bronze statue 
of the Virgin, a very pagan-looking relic ; and, lighting his 



THEODECHILDE AND BASOLUS 259 

long taper, let me have a really good view of La Bonne 
Dame herself, with her strange bovine features, and 
Merovingian coiffure. And all the while he kept giving 
me the popular Mauriac version of the coming of Theode- 
childe. I'm afraid I am not so well up in the Merovingian 
period of French history as I ought to be, — at all events 
there were a great many incidents of which I had never 
heard. I knew, of course, about the marriage of Clovis 
with Clothilde, of his conversion and baptism by Saint 
R£mi, and of the coming of the mysterious white dove 
with the Ampoule containing the sacred oil. But I had 
never properly understood about Basolus, the young 
Gaulish chief, and how he came to give up his castle to the 
Princess Theodechilde. Poor young things ! It is a story 
that must often have had its counterpart in those warlike 
days. The young girl, among her other good works, was 
accustomed to visit the prisons, and there, in his dungeon 
at Sens, she met, for the first time, Basolus. He must have 
been a magnificent young fellow from all accounts, with 
the charm of the Celt, and the refinement of the Roman, 
very different from the coarse ignorant cruel brothers of 
Theodechilde. He was an Arian, and day after day the 
young girl sat with him, teaching and exhorting him, 
promising that if he would join the Catholic Church, she 
would persuade her father to spare his life. Of course you 
guess the end of the story. She was fair and sweet, he 
brave and handsome, and they were both young. So one 
day, finding Clovis in a particularly good temper (I think 
it was just after his great slaughter of the Wisigoths, when 
he smashed Alaric's skull with his own battle-axe), down 
she fell on her knees. 

" A boon, my father, a boon ! " she cried. And Clovis, 
who, savage tyrant that he was, could refuse this daughter 



260 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

nothing, stroked her fair hair and smiled encouragingly. 
But, when he heard that it was the life of the young 
Gaulish captive, who had given his son Thierry such a 
world of trouble, his brow clouded. Perhaps Clothilde had 
told him of Theodechilde's intimacy with Basolus, perhaps 
he had heard how attractive the young Gaul was, perhaps 
the princess, as she made the request, blushed (if girls in 
those days had anything left to blush for), yet he could 
not bear to disappoint her. Besides, these Frankish 
women had enormous influence over their men-folk. A 
man might be as wicked as he liked — it was his " metier " 
— his wife and daughters must be angels ! In reading 
about those times it really seems as though the Mero- 
vingian and Carlovingian kings trusted to the purity and 
righteousness of their women to carry their wicked souls 
to Paradise ! Poor Clovis had many sins on his conscience, 
and his sons, he knew, had already more than he. He 
had been counting on this daughter of his to work out their 
salvation for them, as Abbess of the convent he was 
building at Sens: and here she was, trembling and blushing 
at his feet, begging for the life of a handsome young man 
who was, moreover, his bitterest foe. But not for nothing 
was Clovis descended from the "Old Man of the Sea"! 
After a few moments, his face cleared. 

" Rise ! " said he, " you shall have your wish, oh my 
daughter, Basolus is pardoned. But," and his green eyes 
gleamed craftily, " on one condition — all his land shall be 
bestowed on you, my dearest Theodechilde, and he shall 
become a monk in the monastery of Sens." 

Poor Theodechilde ! Poor Basolus ! I knew now what 
kept her from sleeping, as she sat at the window of what 
had been his chamber in the Vieux Chateau de Montselis 
par Mauriac. She was thinking of those handsome dark 



MAURIAC 261 

curls she had loved, and wondering what the young chief 
looked like, with his monkish tonsure. And Basolus? 
What must he have thought of this young girl, so richly 
endowed at his expense ? Did he blame her, or did he 
guess how it came about ? Perhaps they met, the monk 
and the abbess, later, and poured out their griefs to each 
other ; or perhaps Theodechilde found means of sending 
him a letter, hidden in some royal book of hours. Or 
perhaps — but that is too sad — he went on thinking her a 
sly mercenary puss to the end of his days, and died in the 
cell, which for so long was his prison, hating the white 
sanctimonious face of the little saint ! 

Saint Mary, whom we have already met on the road to 
Brioude, is a great saint at Mauriac. He had a hermitage 
on the hill just outside the town, and was finally buried 
here by one of the Chatelaines of Apchon — Ermengarde de 
Rochedagoux. 

I should like to go back to Mauriac and stay in my old 
oak-panelled room. Every morning I would wander 
about the country breathing the sweet fresh mountain 
air, lying among the flowery pastures with a book. After 
lunch it would be pleasant to go and sit on the fortifica- 
tions, and play with the children till it was time to go to 
Vespers, and dream an hour away in the company of the 
great Black Virgin and the little White Saint. And on 
the way home, after gossiping with the good " Mauria- 
quoises," who would have grown accustomed to my 
presence in their midst, I would turn in at Kostmann's, the 
little dark bookshop, where one meets with so many tit-bits 
of Auvergnat history. And after supper I would sit in 
Madam's bureau and write a real story of the town, not a 
wretched little sketch like this, but a solid volume, telling 
all about the fights between the abbots of Mauriac and Sens, 



262 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

and the bishop who was shut up at Ventadour, and the 
awful time when the town was taken by the Huguenots 
in 1574, and all it suffered during the days of the Terror. 
But we should only come back to Theodechilde and 
Basolus, for their spirits haunt the place, and we meet 
them wherever we wander. Some legends come and go, 
and, like Shakespeare's " unsubstantial vision, leave not a 
wrack behind." But the story of these ancient lovers, for 
such they surely were, lives to-day in every stone of 
Mauriac, gilding the sunshine, silvering the moonlight, 
deepening the shadows, giving this old town of Cantal an 
atmosphere all its own. 



CHAPTER XIV 

Saint - Julien - au - Bois — Saint - Privat — Argentat — Beaulieu— Roc- 
amadour — Story of Zaccheus — The Black Virgin of Rocamadour— 
Domme — Cardouin — The legend of La Saint Suaire — Capelou — 
Saint-Emilion — Angouleme — Poitiers — Saint Radegonde 

AND now, alas, our wanderings in Auvergne are over ! 
Yet, if we must make our way homeward, let it be by 
the longest road possible, and, above all, let us visit that 
greatest of Black Virgins — Our Lady of Rocamadour. 

Years and years ago I heard of her, and her three rock 
chapels — one above the other — and ever since then I have 
been longing to make the pilgrimage. The automobile is 
not anxious to get back to the flinty roads of Sussex, and 
my dear chauffeur-photographer declares he is not tired 
either. So down into the Valley of the Dordogne, reader, 
and God be with us ! 

A lovely valley, clothed in forest, part of the same 
forest owned by poor Basolus — for his estates reached far 
over the country. Now and then we pass a village, and 
once, stopping at an ancient church, find ourselves attend- 
ing a funeral. But nothing can damp our spirits this 
glorious morning. Now we are crossing a high heathery 
moorland gay with sheaves of flaming genesta. Behind, 
growing more distant moment by moment, are the moun- 
tains of Cantal, and, looking back, I catch between two 
hills a glimpse of the Puy de Sancy, smiling his farewell 
at us. 

And in all this breeze-swept waste of earth and sky not 

263 



264 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

a soul to be seen ! Now and again, in a village, we stop 
and try to ask our way, but are not always successful, for 
the Auvergnat patois still pursues us, though in some 
mysterious way I am beginning to understand it a little, 
and can already ask for a glass of milk, or a hunk of 
bread and butter. 

By eleven o'clock we came upon some chestnut trees, 
whose perfume put us in mind of that tea by the roadside 
on our journey down, and made us so hungry that we 
determined to lunch at Saint-Privat. On the road we 
passed an old castle, called Saint-Julien-au-Bois. Over 
the door were sculptured the arms of a forgotten family, 
and the great stone staircase in its tower led us up to vast 
rooms, with huge open chimneys. But only peasants now 
sit beside the hearths, and sleep behind the red curtains of 
the cupboard beds crowded along the walls. I never 
knew the story of the place. It probably ceased at the 
time of the Revolution. The man who rented the 
" dining hall " tried to tell me something about it, but he 
had lost his front teeth, and in any case, his French was 
but indifferent, so I only gathered that it had been built 
by the English, which certainly accorded with the thirteenth 
century style of its architecture. 

Saint-Privat boasts two inns — deadly rivals ! From one 
— a " whited sepulchre " — we fled in horror. The other 
proved excellent. 

While waiting for lunch we strolled over to the church, 
where a pleasant-faced priest was catechising a score 
or so of little ones on the life of their third century 
patron. 

" And what did le Bien Heureux reply to the wicked 
men who wanted him to sacrifice to their false gods ? " 

A long pause, and then a little hand held up. 



SAINT-PRIVAT 265 

"Eh bien, Julien, qu'est-ce que c'est?" 

" He said : ' I wonder you dare ask such a thing of me ! ' " 
came the answer. 

"Bien, petiot, and what else?" 

" And then they whipped him and tore him all to pieces ! " 
cried a little girl, with evident enjoyment. 

"And they burned the sore places with hot irons!" 
screamed another. 

" Tres bien, Jeanne, you have remembered well. And 
where was the good bishop buried ? " 

But just as I was about to hear, the door opened, and a 
boy came to tell us that dejeuner was ready. And after 
all, the great thing at Saint-Privat turned out to be the 
dejeuner. Martyred saints are all very well in their way, 
but when it comes to twelve o'clock — martyred chickens 
are better ! 

They had served lunch on a little terrace at the back of 
the inn ; a happy inspiration, for without the fresh air we 
could never have done justice to half the menu. Again 
and again I declared I had finished, when a new dish would 
tempt me to fresh efforts. In my notebook I find that 
luncheon occupying quite a prominent place. There was 
melon, soup, foie gras, chicken, haricots verts, grilled cutlets, 
rabbit dressed like hare, beside numberless other dainties, 
ending up with great luscious peaches, the memory of which 
makes my mouth water yet. 

" Pray who cooked this lunch ? " I asked of the dark-eyed, 
apple-cheeked, Mongolian-looking beauty who waited on us. 

" C'est moi, Madam," she answered modestly, " un petit peu 
le patron — mais c'est moi surtout," and with intense interest 
she watched as I tasted each course. 

Beyond Saint-Privat the road climbs once more on to the 
moorland, still bounded on the horizon by the turquoise 



266 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

and amethyst mountains. Now, on turning a corner we saw 
lying far below us, the valley of the Dordogne, grown, by 
this time, into a broad placid middle-aged opulent river, 
yet with a twinkle in its eye that reminded one of the 
stream we had known higher up. And there, bathing her 
feet in the river, like some young girl, sat the Celtic town of 
Argentat. For a moment we drew up beside a barley field, 
gay with poppies and cornflowers, and enjoyed the charm- 
ing sight. Then next moment we were plunging down 
toward the river. 

I don't think I have ever seen a more charming town than 
Argentat The broad quay is lined with ancient turretted 
houses ; a dream of white walls, draped with hanging wooden 
balconies full of flowers, rich browns and reds of shadowy 
roofs, and the blue-green depths of the river. 

I was standing on the bridge with my head under the 
black cloth, when a delightful old priest accosted one of us, 
and took us to see a private collection of prehistoric imple- 
ments, discovered in the neighbourhood. He told us of 
the dolmen of Argentat, the great stone which they say 
Roland the Paladin took out of his shoe when he was 
crossing the valley on his way to the Pyrenees. 

After leaving Argentat, the road runs along by the 
river — the loveliest road, high wooded hills on either hand, 
now shutting us in, now opening a hair's-breadth for us to 
pass. Sometimes under the chestnut shadows, the auto- 
mobile and the Dordogne run racing side by side, the 
great river rippling with laughter at the efforts of the 
little car ! Sometimes the road draws back, and between 
us and the water are bright green meadows and cornfields, 
where handsome-looking people in big sunhats, and broad 
blue trousers, belted round the waist with crimson sashes, 
are reaping the ripe ears with the sickle. 



ROCAMADOUR 267 

Through Brivesac with Romanesque church and vine- 
hung cottages we fly. The vines are calling us to stop 
and photograph them, but on on we hasten in a delirious 
dream of golden sunlight, cool brown shadows, scented 
flowers, birds' song and the blue sheen of the whispering 
river. Once, when owing to a rise in the road, we were 
running some forty feet above the stream, we saw, lying 
below us, the red roofs of a town, and scrambling down 
the bank, found Beaulieu with its wonderful church and 
market-place. But I cannot describe all the details of 
that journey. 

It is evening. 

For some time we have been running over the com- 
paratively level country of Quercy, and being tired I have 
ceased to notice the road. In a little town, Gramat, if I 
remember rightly, we stop to ask the way. It is already 
so dark that I can scarcely see the face of the man who 
answers me. After that I remember a railway crossing, 
a turn to the left, a tunnel through a rock. . . . We 
stopped but just in time. Another foot or two and our 
journey would have ended abruptly with a sudden leap 
into the Vallee Tenebreuse. 

As we peered down awed into the yawning gulf, we could 
see lights twinkling as though in mid air, and, as our 
eyes became accustomed to the dusk, could distinguish 
vast rocky walls soaring tier above tier, crowned on the 
summit by the battlements of a castle, and the arms of a 
gigantic calvary, silhouetted black against the sky. Then 
we began creeping down into the abyss, and the further 
we descended, the blacker grew the night, and the higher 
the cliffs, which on every side enclose this amazing valley 
of Rocamadour. 



268 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

At last, a gateway, at which a girl is waiting. " Hotel du 
Lion d'Or ? " she inquires. And in another moment we 
have alighted and are climbing up the staircase to the 
hotel. 

Everyone since the time of Zaccheus himself has been 
to Rocamadour, and everyone has tried to describe it. 
But whether one paints, photographs, or writes, it eludes 
one, like a mirage, and if you are a wise person you will 
give up the attempt. Yet here am I, trying my luck with 
the rest. 

Even as I followed the landlady to my little white cell 
of a bedroom, I knew that I was in a rock dwelling, for 
only the front of the " Lion d'Or " has windows, and it is 
but one room thick. But it was not till later that I found 
my way up through the roof to the garden, and from the 
garden, climbed by a steep stairway to the monastery and 
chapels. Then as I looked up, and still found only rock 
frowning down upon me, I began, in truth, to realize my 
surroundings. A little later, when the moon came out, and 
showed the buildings like a mass of swallows' nests, one 
above the other clinging to the mountain side, and the 
little galleries and stairways winding about among the 
cracks and crannies, I felt the hopelessness of words, and 
going down to my room, sat up half the night search- 
ing for suitable adjectives to describe the wonderful 
place. 

No one knows the origin of Rocamadour. When, after 
his return from a journey to Rome, Zaccheus found his 
wife Veronica dead, he abandoned the little hermitage at 
Bordeaux, where they had lived together, and found his 
way up the Dordogne. Perhaps he came upon the Vallee 
Tenebreuse suddenly, as we did. Perhaps someone told 
him of the human sacrifices, which the Druids still offered 



ROCAMADOUR 269 

to the mysterious Black Mother Soulivia, who reigned in 
the cavern temple half way up the rock. At all events, 
he settled beside her door in a hermitage he scooped out 
for himself in the face of the cliff. " Amadour " he was 
called, for was it not he, who, ever since that memorable 
day when he climbed up into the sycamore tree, had 
watched over and tended the young Teacher of Nazareth, 
showing his love and devotion to such a degree that the 
early Christians knew him as the Lover of Our Lord — 
" Amadour." 

It was not long before the enthusiasm of Zaccheus 
prevailed over the cold philosophy of the Druids — as 
it was bound to do, and the shrine of the Black Mother 
became known as the Miraculous Chapel of the Blessed 
Virgin. Whether the statue we see is that of the ancient 
goddess Soulivia, or whether, as the Sister in charge will 
aver, it was carved by Saint Luke and brought hither 
by the good Amadour, I cannot say. There it stands, 
and below is an altar which is as great a puzzle as the 
statue itself! To-day it is enclosed and concealed in 
an outer covering of bronze. But beneath the casing is 
a very old stone altar, with no place for relics, only a 
hole, a sort of drain, through which, before the time of 
the gentle Amadour, the blood of the human sacrifices 
offered to the goddess Soulivia used to run. 

While I was staying at Rocamadour I used to go 
to the Chapel of Notre Dame while they were chanting 
the Rosary, and look up at the little dusky face above 
the altar, and wonder whether the Black Mother was 
pleased when Amadour put an end to the bloody 
sacrifices. 

But it is a foolish speculation. The Black Mother, 
or whatever she was called, signified to those pre-Christian 



270 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

worshippers at Rocamadour the highest ideal of which 
they were able to conceive, and to her they sacrificed 
their best — and what can man do more ? 

With the advent of Zaccheus came a still more lofty 
conception of the divine, and he taught them that it was 
the sacrifice of themselves, their souls and bodies, which 
was required by the Mother and Her Son. So there 
she sits, smiling down, and, as her pilgrims offer the 
golden hearts, emblematical of the lives they vow shall 
for the future be spent in her service, she feels, or rather 
the goodness and mercy she typifies feels, more satisfaction 
in the modern worship than in the ancient. 

It is very restful sitting in the twilight, listening to 
the singing of the good Sisters. The chapel is built 
into the cliff, and the west wall is nothing but a rough 
face of rock, blackened for countless ages with the smoke 
of innumerable votive candles. There they burn con- 
tinually, set in iron rings, and their shifting glow lights 
up the crutches, epaulettes, chains, fetters, and strangest 
of all, several models of ships ! For this inland Virgin 
is intimately associated with sailors. Do you see that 
little bell up there ? It hangs high in the roof, half hidden 
by the banners and decorations. Very possibly it is 
the self-same bell with which Zaccheus summoned his 
converts to worship — it is certainly ancient enough ! 
Formerly it hung in a turret outside the chapel, and 
though it was never furnished with a cord, it rang 
occasionally. When it rang, it was a sign that the 
Blessed Virgin, whose bell it was, had performed a very 
special miracle to someone in distress, who had called 
upon Her name, and particularly sailors in danger of 
shipwreck. 

Just outside the door the hermit hollowed his tomb 



ROCAMADOUR 271 

in the rock, and there they laid him, when, in the year 
75, he died at the foot of the altar in the adjoining chapel. 
He was such a humble-minded saint that the place of 
his sepulture was quickly forgotten, and it was not till 
1 146, as the monks of Rocamadour were seeking a spot 
where to lay someone who had desired to be buried near 
to the entrance to the chapel, that they came upon the 
tomb of the hermit. As the inscription says : " Ici fut 
decouvert en 1146 le corps, parfaitement conserve, de 
Zachde, l'ami de Notre Seigneur." They recognized the 
skeleton, so " little of stature," immediately, and removed 
it to a special chapel, setting it up in a niche, where, 
through a grille, the faithful could reverence it. And 
here it remained till the Huguenots tore it from its place 
and burned it, together with all the other relics they could 
find. But some of the body of Amadour escaped, and 
notably his skull, which may still be seen at Rocamadour. 
And as for his spirit, it is all around us, as we climb up 
and down the face of the cliff, and visit the monastery 
and the many chapels and sacred caverns with which it 
is honeycombed. 

I was sitting on the bench in front of the tomb, where, 
in a great stone coffin, lies an ancient wooden statue of 
the incorruptible body of the dead Amadour, when an 
old priest came and seated himself beside me. His friends, 
he said, had climbed up to the castle, but it was too steep 
for him, he would rather sit here, in the sunshine, and think 
about Zaccheus. 

He had been often to Rocamadour and knew the legends 
of the place. After pointing out the thirteenth century 
" Dance of Death " and the " Sword of Roland," stuck in 
the wall above the enormous alms-box, he went on, telling 
me how the Palladin, after every victory, would come to 



272 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

return thanks, and leave his sword Durandal in pledge, to 
be redeemed later from the Black Virgin for its weight in 
silver. He said that it was still the custom of young girls 
to come with their fiances and try to pull the sword out 
of the wall. "If they succeed, it means they will be 
married within the year," said he with a smile. 

The old gentleman had assisted at the annual pilgrimage 
some few years previously, and told me that 100,000 
pilgrims had visited the chapel during the week, between 
the 8th and 16th of September. 

When he had rested, we climbed the narrow stairs to 
the ancient chapel of Saint Michel and looked down from 
the little balcony, whence the Bishop of Cahors blesses the 
pilgrims gathered below. As my old friend left me, he 
asked if I belonged to the Roman Church. " No," said I, 
" I am English, I belong to the church of my country." 
" Ah," said he, politely, " but it is a Christian church, it is 
but a less direct way to the same Paradise," with which 
broad-minded remark he left me to join his friends, and 
I was alone with the chief of the publicans. 

So there I sat by Amadour's grave, thinking over the 
past glories of the sanctuary. To the right lay the 
monastery, with its great Salle de Reception, once the 
Salon of the Bishops of Tulle. Just below I could catch a 
glimpse of La Cour d'Honneur round which are grouped 
the chapels of Saint Jean, Saint Blaise, Sainte Anne, Saint 
Amadour. From here there is a view down the vast flight 
of steps leading to the valley, the steps up which the 
pilgrims, whether peasants or kings, crawled humbly on 
their knees, — and there was scarcely a king of old who 
did not visit Rocamadour. 

In the beautiful chapel of Saint Sauveur, which opens 
from that of Our Lady, we shall find the names of some 





X < 
* 2 



ROCAMADOUR 273 

of them figuring on the walls. There was our own Henry 
II., who arrived, laden with chains, to beg forgiveness for 
the murder of Thomas a Becket. I wonder if the fetters 
in the chapel were his ? And Louis the Saint came with 
his three brothers and their mother Queen Blanche, bear- 
ing rich offerings for the Virgin Mother of the Vallee 
Tenebreuse. Afterwards, Charles le Bel and Philippe de 
Valois did homage to their suzeraine " La Reine de La 
France," as the Black Virgin had come to be called. And 
last, but not least, up the great staircase crawled Louis XI 
" bourgeois et populaire," paying his devotions, in the 
character of a simple pilgrim, to La Vierge Noire. 

And beside these, and many other royal personages, 
there was, through the Middle Ages, a never-ceasing stream 
of bishops, nobles, peasants, so that the stairs and galleries 
were constantly thronged with worshippers, and the riches 
and fame of the Black Virgin increased, till they equalled 
those of Saint-Jacques-de-Compostelle and Saint-Martin- 
de-Tours. 

To-day it is quiet and empty. 

" Did you have many pilgrims this last festival ? " I 
inquire of the pretty Sister, as I pay for the books I have 
just bought. 

" No ! " says she, shaking her head sadly. " It has been 
a bad season, and the people are poor. It will be a hard 
winter for them and for us." 

These Sisters, I found, are still allowed to teach the 
children of Rocamadour, but only on condition that, when 
doing so, they lay aside their religious garb. " But we are 
glad to remain on any terms," said the Sister, " for it brings 
us into contact with the people, and now in one way, now 
in another, we are able to sow among them the good seed 
which is so sorely needed in these days." 
18 



274 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

Thus the work of Zaccheus still goes on, and the light 
he kindled at Rocamadour shines down over the sea of 
secularism, which, in France, has replaced the paganism of 
the first century. 

It is very hard to leave Rocamadour ! Even after we 
have climbed out of the valley, I find my mind returning 
regretfully to the peaceful spot, so that it is but vaguely I 
remember the afternoon, or even our quarters for the night ; 
which is perhaps as well, for Sarlat, where we stayed, is 
a wretched, squalid place, where even the golden moon, 
which lighted it after dinner, failed to discover any 
charms. 

But Domme ! What a place for an artist ! I suppose 
when the English besieged it, during the Hundred Years' 
War, there was little save the castle buildings within the 
ramparts which still crown the great rock above the 
Dordogne. To-day, as one enters the frowning gateway, 
one finds oneself in the little square of a village which 
has sprung up within the walls. Flowers are hanging 
everywhere, from the balconies, the walls, the overhanging 
eaves of the white houses. The inn, at which we stop for 
a glass of wine, has a courtyard roofed with vines, from 
which the grapes are already hanging in little clusters, and 
the streets are so narrow and steep, that I think they must 
have originally been the staircases and corridors of the 
ancient castle. But of that castle itself nothing remains. 
The landlord, it is true, took us to see the threshing floor, 
where the corn was brought from all the surrounding 
neighbourhood, for the lord of Domme to take his lion's 
share. It is evidently still used by the peasants, for there 
were ears of corn lying about. But the old mill beside it 
is in ruins. From it one can look right down over the 
valley of the Dordogne, and watch the river for miles and 



DOMME 275 

miles winding its way past meadows and villages, toward 
the far-off ocean in the west. Our guide pointed out the 
spot from which the Black Prince bombarded the castle, 
and showed us the gateway with its Salle de Garde, and 
the prison walls covered with the usual pathetic carvings, 
crosses, figures of the Christ His arms spread wide, and 
inscriptions which I have forgotten. 

"And what are these?" I asked, pointing to a spot 
where the stone was pock-marked at a height varying from 
five feet four to eight. For answer, the man called a girl, 
and stood her with her back to the wall ; at the same time 
raising an imaginary gun, and aiming at her head, which 
was on a level with many of the holes. 

" It was the place of execution," he explained briefly, 
letting his arm fall to his side. 

We lunched at Domme, in the dearest little room, open- 
ing off the vine-covered courtyard I have mentioned. 
Our host had four boys at home, the eldest about ten ; and 
it was this youth who waited on us, a serviette over his 
arm, his bare legs and socks just showing beneath his little 
white apron. His face was grave and self-important, as 
that of the head waiter at the Savoy. It was like looking 
at a family butler through the wrong end of a telescope ! 
In fact the boy, in his way, was perfect. 

" When you are grown up, you will be a maitre d'hotel, 
n'est-ce pas ? " I asked encouragingly. 

"Mais oui, Madame," as though that were a foregone 
conclusion. 

" A Paris ? " I inquired, somewhat crushed by his 
assurance. 

" Oui, Madame, a Paris," and with a respectful, " Pardon, 
Madame," he removed the cheese plate on which I had, in 
my careless way, settled some cherries, and put before me 



276 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

another, which he had been polishing with his official 
serviette. 

" The coffee ? " said my husband, thinking to catch him at 
a disadvantage. The solemn eyes rested on him in humble 
reproof. 

" II est en train, Monsieur," and he slipped out silently 
to the yard. " En suite ! " we heard him cry imperiously 
to his mother in the kitchen, and next moment he was 
back, subservient as ever, putting the sugar and biscuits 
noiselessly before us. 

" And pray, who taught you all this ?■" I ask, admiringly. 

" Madame, it is my brother. He is sixteen, and already 
at Bordeaux." 

" When you are sixteen, you must come to England and 
learn English." 

" Possibly, Madame, but," with a blase air, " I learned 
English when at school." 

Sapre nom d'un chien ! as his father would probably 
have said, what a child ! 

But if we are going to linger so, at every place, we shall 
never reach home ! We have scarcely time to glance 
at La Roque-Gageac hanging to its sandstone cliff, or 
Castlenau, once the home of our own Henry the Second. 

Beynac, too, with its picturesque little quay and old 
houses hanging over the river, has to be left without a 
visit. The Dordogne is very lovely here, broad, and full of 
islands on which any number of hermits might take up 
their abode ! 

Later, we come to Cadouin, and there we must pause, if 
only to see the Gothic cloisters, perhaps the finest in France. 
I had an introduction to the Dean of Cadouin, who told 
me the story of the Saint Suaire, the cloth which wrapped 
Our Lord's head, as He lay in the tomb; and showed 



LE SAINT SUAIRE 277 

me, carved among the vaulting of the cloisters, the story 
of its translation to Cadouin. This proved so long and 
wonderful, that the curate had to come more than once to 
call us to lunch. And it was as we were sitting in the 
ancient panelled dining-room, where Louis the Eleventh 
no doubt lunched, when he came hither on his pilgrimage, 
that I heard the conclusion of the matter. 

It appears that this wonderful cloth which, as the Dean 
assured me, covered Our Saviour down to the knees, was 
embroidered by His Mother, in anticipation of His death. 
It is a curious cloth, very much like that still used in some 
parts of Brittany for laying over the faces of the dead. 
The Virgin, brought up in the Temple, was, as all the 
world knows, a great needlewoman ; and these embroideries 
on the Saint Suaire are said to be her finest work. After 
the resurrection, it passed into the family of a rich Jewish 
convert, who, at his death, left it to one of his sons. But 
the young man cared more for money than religion, and 
sold the precious relic to his pious younger brother — and 
with it, all his luck. Every day he grew poorer, and as 
his fortunes declined, those of the younger son increased. 
For five generations the Suaire remained in his family, 
which prospered exceedingly. 

After that, there are all manner of strange legends 
told of the cloth, which, at one time, was kept by seven 
virgins living in a solitary place on the banks of the 
Jordan. During the first Crusade, Ademar, Bishop of Le 
Puy who, as I have already said, 1 had gone to Palestine as 
the Pope's Legate, obtained possession of the Suaire at the 
taking of Antioch. Shortly after, falling sick of the plague, 
the brave bishop called his chaplain, and told him to 
convey the precious relic to the cathedral of Le Puy as his 

1 See page 62. 



278 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

dying legacy. But it never reached its destination. 
Important relics seldom did in those days. Concealed 
beneath the false bottom of a barrel of wine, it found its 
way to Cussac, and thence — alas, that I should have to 
confess it — was stolen by the monks of Cadouin. 

Yet, in spite of this, we were delighted with Cadouin. 

The inn, though so old that the courtiers of Louis the 
Eleventh themselves may have stayed there, is clean and 
comfortable. 

Above the gate leading to the church is the little room 
where the king is said to have slept. 

And, more than all, there is the Dean, ready to talk for 
ever and ever, on the wonderful history of " the Suaire," 
as he proudly proclaims it. 

Not far from Cadouin, we came to Capelou, where is one 
of those black Virgins said to have been discovered by an 
ox when ploughing. She is good, they say, for sick 
children, and for mothers in danger of their lives. Here, 
too, is a very ancient fountain, and a great chestnut tree, 
round which, on a raised bank of earth, the pilgrims sit on 
the day of the festival and eat roast fowl. 

" I wish I had as many chickens as have been eaten 
beneath this tree, eh Jacques?" said the priest, as, 
accompanied by the Sacristan, we passed the tree, on the 
way to the vicarage. 

" Mais oui, Monsieur le Cure ! " ejaculated the man 
enviously. 

At Monpazier, extraordinary relic of the English, we stop 
to take a photograph ; and so to Bergerac, with its old 
wooden market hall, and war monument, and the quay 
by the river, where great white oxen, their faces veiled 
with netting, are drawing huge waines, laden with wine 
casks. 



SAINT-EMILION 279 

It was somewhere on this road, not far from Castillon, 
that we came upon the Tertre de Talbot, the spot where, on 
the 17th of July 1453, fell John Talbot, Earl of Shrewsbury, 
in that battle which ended for ever the war which, for a 
hundred years, had ravaged France. 

And now, my patient reader, you must be as tired as I 
was when I reached Saint-Emilion. But before we say 
good-night, and turn in at the quaint hotel, we must surely 
visit the subterranean church, and the grotto of the 
troglodyte saint, who founded it. What the great rock 
temple was before his time, who can say ? To-day, it is 
a vast cavern hewn out of a living hillside, the most ghostly 
overwhelming nightmare of a church I have ever seen. 
High up, in the vaulting, there are strange apocalyptic 
figures of winged beasts, and a great barbaric cross frowns 
indistinctly down, from what was . once an altar. Every- 
where open the entrances to tombs, black, yawning, 
mysterious ; and the air is dank and heavy with the smell 
of earth. Down the dreadful nave I walked, fearfully, 
shuddering as though I were about to take part in some 
terrifying midnight ceremony of the dead. And, indeed, 
who knows what the horrible place was used for, before the 
coming of Saint-Emilion, for, in spite of what the guardian 
says, nothing will persuade me it was excavated by 
Christian monks. Yet, here they He, buried in hollows 
along the base of the wall, apparently as comfortably as 
though they were in the cheerful precincts of the Champs 
Elysee. 

Next door, so to speak, is the grotto of the sixth century 
hermit, Saint-Emilion, with its stone altar, chair, and bed, 
carved along the wall ; and in a corner, the sacred well 
into which the young girls of the district throw pins, 
after the usual manner. But as far as I could discover, 



28o AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

no one remembers anything of the Saint. They know all 
about the English besieging the place, and Philippe le Bel 
driving them out, and taking possession of the old Chateau 
du Roi, whose huge square donjon still frowns down over 
the ramparts. And you may hear the story of the wars 
between the Huguenots and Catholics, and of the visit of 
Louis XII. and his gifts to the splendid parish church. 
But of Emilion himself, the only thing I could find really 
reliable, was the wine to which he had given his name. 
Troglodyte or no, he certainly must have been a judge of 
claret ! 

That night, after I had blown out the candle, the dark 
walls of my chamber seemed to expand, till I found myself 
back in the great Souterraine looking up the vast nave, to 
where, on the raised platform at the end, gleamed a faint 
ghostly radiance. Phantom forms flitted around the 
rock-hewn pillars, and dead monks knelt on either side 
of the chancel steps, while in the middle, celebrating 
some kind of black Mass, was the hermit himself. And 
this was the only glimpse I ever caught of this elusive 
saint ! 

A bright morning, and a busy town lying at the junction 
of two great rivers ! It is Libourne, and from hence we 
turn northward, and begin the homeward journey in serious 
earnest. 

Angouleme, set on a hill terraced with the remains of 
ancient fortifications ! It was probably in La Grosse 
Tour, that the Black Prince took up his abode, after the 
battle of Poitiers. It formed part of the castle of the 
Counts of Angouleme, who, from the eighth century to the 
fourteenth, were independent rulers of the province. Here, 
in 1492, was born Marguerite de Valois, sister of Francis 



POITIERS 281 

the First. At Angouleme, Calvin lived and preached, 
earning his living as a teacher of Greek, and, no doubt, 
burning the midnight oil over notes for his great work, 
" Institutes of the Christian Religion." 

But we must hasten on to Poitiers, our last stopping-place, 
as far as this book is concerned, where you and I, reader, 
must take leave of each other, after this long wandering 
together. 

I remember so well the first time I visited Poitiers. It 
was in the very early days of motoring, and our great 
lumbering car came puffing and panting up the hill, vomit- 
ing steam and petrol fumes like some antediluvian 
dragon, so that all the people, attracted by its roaring, 
turned out to see the wondrous sight! Half way up it 
stopped, and, the brakes refusing to act, we began slipping 
down, and were only saved from destruction by the simple 
device of backing the car into a wall. It was the 14th of 
July, and after dinner, there were fireworks in the Place, 
and the ghostly old city was gay with rockets and lively 
with squibs and crackers. 

But it takes many visits to know Poitiers. There 
is the Saracen story, ending with the great battle 
between Charles Martel and the Mussulman chief 
Abderahman, when 300,000 Saracens were left dead on 
the field. 

And there is the later history of the English victory 
over King John of France. The Black Prince with his 12,000 
men, suddenly confronted by 60,000 of the best-appointed 
troops in Europe ! " Now, Sirs," said the Prince, " though 
we be but a small company, let us not be abasshed there- 
fore, for the victory lyeth nat in the multitude of people, 
but wher as God wyll send it. Therefore Sirs, for Goddes 
sake, I requyre you do your deuoyers this day, for if God 



282 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

be pleased and Saynt George, this day ye shall see me a 
good knight." 

And there are the churches of Poitiers, the Cathedral of 
Saint Pierre, founded by Henry the Second of England,who, 
by the bye, must really have been a perfect godsend to the 
French ecclesiastical architects of those days. And there 
is the extraordinary Cathedral of Notre Dame des Clefs, 
with its Black Virgin, patronne of the city. You remember 
the story perhaps. 

Poitiers besieged, by the English, was as straightly shut 
up as Jericho, the keys laid for safety at the feet of the 
Black Virgin. There was plenty of food and water, and 
the enemy was growing impatient. In fact, Poitiers only 
had to sit still and wait. But as the man who told me 
about it, remarked : " The worst enemies are not always 
those without." One night a " copper-head," whose name 
has, fortunately, been forgotten, his pockets full of 
English gold, stole into the Cathedral, snatched up the 
keys, and ran off through the darkness to the city gate. 
But when he reached it, imagine his terror ! The keys 
were gone ! One moment he had them, the next his 
hand was empty ! And that was not all, for the following 
morning, at daybreak, there they lay, safely as ever, at the 
feet of the statue, which ever since has been known as 
" Notre Dame des Clefs." 

But the church par excellence is that of Saint Radegonde, 
sixth wife of King Clotaire. Thierry has told her story 
so charmingly, that one hesitates to repeat it : and yet, it 
is in the presence of Saint Radegonde that we must say 
good-bye ; and some of my readers may not be acquainted 
with this Thuringian princess. 

As we sit in the great church, with its raised altar, and 
listen to the priests' voices chanting the office, there rises 






.V 



it* 



,« 3 







,* m 




* •* JmP.^ 



*r 



$^i^ 



i 



^ 




THE CHURCH OF SAINT RADEGONDE, POITIERS 



SAINT RADEGONDE 283 

before us the image of a little brother and sister, away in 
far Thuringia, weeping over their dead father Berthaire, 
and taken away by his murderer to grace his court at 
Soissons. Even in those early days Clotaire had been 
struck by Radegonde's beauty, and the education he gave 
her, the care which was lavished upon her in her beautiful 
home at Athies, was intended to prepare her for the high 
destiny of becoming his wife. We cannot follow her 
through all the mournful story. The young girl of 
eighteen, already, as she believed, betrothed to the Christ, 
found herself forced to marry the dissolute savage murderer 
of her own father. Yet even this trial seems but to have 
purified Radegonde's already spotless nature. As for the 
king — he adored her, and his crimes once committed, his 
orgies past, always came back to fall at her feet and pray 
for forgiveness. 

And many times did Radegonde forgive him — far more 
than the required seventy times seven. But at last he 
wore out even her saintly patience. In all her troubles 
she had had one consolation — the young brother, who had 
come with her from Thuringia, and who had been brought 
up at the court of Clotaire like a prince. In a fit of 
passion, no doubt moved by jealousy, the king one day 
fell upon him and killed him. 

There is a letter of Radegonde's, written to her cousin, 
in which she tells of her grief: 

" Not a day passes for me without tears for this brother, 
who has taken all my joy to his tomb. He was so young, 
the down had only begun to cover his lips, when he was 
struck ; and I, his sister, was not there to help him ! Not 
only have I lost him, but I had not the consolation of 
closing his dear eyes, nor of bending over him to whisper 
my last farewell. My burning tears were given no chance 



284 AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 

of warming his frozen breast, nor was I able to kiss his 
dying lips. Why was it not rather I than thou, oh, my 
brother?" 

Feeling thus, can we blame Radegonde that she left 
Clotaire ? It was to Noyon she fled, to old Saint Medard. 
The ancient story says that the bishop was afraid to 
receive her into the cloister, dreading the wrath of Clotaire, 
and that it was Radegonde herself, who, snatching a veil 
from one of the Sisters, flung her jewels on the altar, 
crying : " Bishop of the Lord, if you refuse me shelter, 
if the fear of man is greater to you than the fear of God, 
remember that the Divine Shepherd will, one day, call 
you to account for the soul of his sheep." 

So she became a nun, and founded a convent in Poitou, 
where she lived till the day of her death, beloved and 
cherished even by the very children of Clotaire. 

There are many stories told of her — exquisite little 
human stories which bear upon them the stamp of truth. 
And there are the usual legends which invariably grow up 
round a royal saint. At some period she must have killed 
her dragon, for, until lately, on the day of her festival, a 
model of the monster was carried in procession through 
the town, and the girls who wished to know when they 
would be married, tried to throw stones into its gaping 
mouth. 

She is a wonderful saint, too, for the sick. A friend of 
mine, travelling by the White Train to Lourdes, was 
surprised after a stop at Poitiers to find that many of the 
pilgrims were already cured, after a visit to her tomb. 
" Oh, yes," said one of the Sisters in charge, " Sainte 
Radegonde is so mechante ! She is always stealing cures 
from the Blessed Virgin." 

But if you wish to know what Radegonde is to the 



SAINT RADEGONDE 285 

people of Poitiers, wait till after Mass, and go with me 
down the steps to the crypt, where her body lies beneath 
the high altar. The old stone coffin is raised on pillars, 
and at its foot, is a beautiful statue in marble, showing the 
Saint robed as a nun, yet crowned as a queen. And as we 
stand aside among the candles, we shall see the mothers 
coming with their little ones, babies' hands guided to touch 
the sacred foot, lame children held up to kiss her hand, 
and little white faces laid confidingly on her bosom, 
which is perhaps the more motherly for all the world, 
because no child of her own ever nestled there. 

And it is here, reader, that I shall say Adieu, for where 
could I say it better than in the Holy of Holies of this 
sixth century Queen of France. 



IN DEX 



A 



Abbey of Brioude, 158 

Adhemar du Monteil, Bishop of Le 

Puy, 172-277 
Agnes Sorel, 190 
Alagnon, Gorge of the, 148 
Alesia, 30 

Alleuze, Castle of, 196 
Amable, Saint, 51 
Amadour, Saint, 269 
Amblard of Apchon, 131 
Amerigot Marche, 198-202, 236 
Angouleme, 280 
Antoine de Chabannes, 115 
Antonin, Saint, 141 
Apchon, 128-130, 131 
Apollo, Oracle of, 183 
Argentat, 266 
Armagnac, Jacques d', Due de 

Nemours, 147 
Aubiac, d', 205 
Aubusson, 11 
Augusto Nemetum, 59 
Aureinques, Chapelle d', 220 
Aurillac, 208 et seq. 
Austremoine, Saint, 60-67, 87 
Auvergne, Catherine de Medicis, 

Lady of, 105 
Avit, Saint, 64 et seq. 



B 



Basilica of Saint Julien of Brioude, 

155 

Basolus, 251 et seq. 

Batefol, Sir Seguin de, 150 

Bats, Superstitions concerning, 92 

Beatrix de Gaure, 3 

Beaulieu, 267 

Beaumont, 24 



Bergerac, 278 

Bernajrd de Madic, 114 

Bertrand du Guesclin, Tomb of, 178 

Besse, 90 et seq. 

Bete, La, du Gevaudan, 195 

Black Prince, the, 274-281 

Blaise, Story of, 126 

Bois-Sejour, 77 

Bonne-Lance, Sir John, 79 

Bonnite, Saint, Legend of, 160 

Bort, 112 

Boucherie, Place de la, 142 

Boulade, 88 

Bourbon, Pierre de, 54 

Bourges, 29 

Bourree, La, 221 

Boussac, Castle of, 9 et seq. 

Bredons, Bridge of, 146 

Brioude, 149 et seq. 

Abbey of, 158 

Old, 157-159 

Brosse, Jean de, Marechal de Boussac, 

10 
Buron, Castle of, 84 
Butchers, the, of Murat, 145 



Cabannes, Castel de, 204 
Cadouin, 276 et seq. 
Caesar, 28 et seq. 
Calvin, 280 
Cantal, Geology of, 148 

Superstitions of, 127 

Capelou, 278 
Carlat, Castle of, 200 
Castel, 139 

de Cabannes, 204 

Castlenau, 276 
Castle of Alleuze, 196 

Apchon, 128 

2S7 



288 



AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 



Castle of Boussac, 10 

Buron, 84 

Carlat, 200 

Cropieres, 231 

La Mothe, 151 

La Tour d'Auvergne, 104 

Madic, 114 

Murat, 230 

Pierrefort, 199 

Polignac, 70, 179 et seq. 

Saint Etienne, 182 

Tournemine, 236 

Ventadour, 1 19 

Cathedral of Clermont, 71 

Le Puy, 165 

Saint Pierre, Poitiers, 282 

Chamalieres, 20 
Champagnac, N. D. de, 117 
Champeix, 44 et seq. 
Chapelle d'Aureinques, 220 
Chapel of La Font Sainte, 132 

■ Saint Michel, 1 18 

Saint Radegonde, 7 

Vassivieres, 10 1 

Ville Dieu, 192 

Charlemagne, 172 

Charles Martel, 281 

VII., 190 

Chateaulaudun, 60 

Cheylade, 136 

Christine de Rieux, 3 

Clermont, 17, 58 et seq. 

Clotaire, 282 

Clovis, 117, 260 

Cologne, 233 

Condat, 122 

Convent of Sens, 260 

Correze, Superstitions of, 86 

Crusade, First, Preaching of, 62 

Departure for, 173 



D 

Delille, Place, 62 
Diana, Temple of, 178 
Dienne, 139 
Domme, 274 
Dordogne, Gorge of, 1 18 

Valley of, 263 

Drac, 49 



I Druid Sanctuary of Naomh-ait, 59 
Druidical Stone of Mount Anis, 164 
Du Guesclin, Bertrand, Tomb of, 
178 



E 



English at Vassivieres, 99 



Ferrand, 78 et seq. 
Florus, Saint, Legend of, 186 
Fontanges, Marie- Angelique de, 231 
Font-Sainte, Notre Dame de, 132 

et seq. 
Fountain of Vassivieres, 98 
France, Anne de, 54 
Frediere, Notre Dame de, 191 
Front, Saint, 162 



G 



Gatien, Saint, 8 
Geoffrey Tete Noir, 119 
Georges, Saint, of Velay, 162 et seq. 
Geraud, Saint, 209 et seq. 
Gerbert, Saint, 215 et seq. 
Gergovia, 24 et seq. 

Village of, 33 et seq. 

Geronnet de Maudurant, 79 
Gevaudan, La Bete du, 195 
Goignade, La, 221 
Gramat, 267 
Gregory of Tours, 6, 64 
Grottesde Jonas, 90 
Gueranger, Dom, 5 



H 

Hippolytus, 132 
Huguenots, Bishop 
the, 174 

Siege of Aurillac by, 219 

Siege of Salers by, 241 



Senectere and 



INDEX 



289 



Iciodorum, 87 
Indiciat, Mount, 187 
Issoire, 87 et seq. 



Jordanne, Legends of the River, 214 

et seq. 
Julien, Saint, of Brioude, 155 
July, 14th of, 175 



Lac Pavin, 95 

Laval, 3 

La Baraque, 20 

La Montee de Vassivieres, 100 

LaMothe, Chateau de, 151 et seq. 

La Tour d'Auvergne, 104 et seq. 

Le Crest, 37-41 

Leger, Saint, 137 

Leobard, Saint, 7 

Le Puy, 162 et seq. 

Libourne, 280 

Limagne, 15 

Loup-Garou or Were-Wolf, 49 

Lucius, Legend of, 87 

Lug, Temple of, 18 



M 

Madic, 114 

Marche, Amerigot, 198-202, 236 

Marguerite de Valois, 200 

Marmagnac, 234 

Marmoutier, Abbey of, 7 

Marsat, Notre Dame de, 53 

Martin, Saint, 6 

Mauriac, 248 et seq. 

Medicis, Catherine de, 104 

Mercury, Temple of, 18 

Merle, General, 88 

Mille Vaches, Plateau des, 12 

Monpazier, 278 

Mount Anis, 164 

Murat, 141 et seq. 



N 

Naomh-ait, 59 
Natzy, Notre Dame de, 109 
Naucelles, Legend of, 232 
Notre Dame de Capelou, 278 

de Champagnac, 117 

des Clefs, 282 

de la Font-Sainte, 132 

de Frediere, 191 

des Miracles, 250 et seq. 

de Natzy, 109 

aux Neiges, 219 

des Oliviers, 144 

d'Orcival, 12 

du Pont de Bredons, 147 

du Port, 38 et seq. 

du Puy, 168 et seq. 

de Rocamadour, 267 et seq. 

de Vassivieres, 82 et seq. 



Oliviers, Notre Dame des, 144 
Oracle of Apollo at Polignac, 183 
Orcival, Notre Dame d', 12 



Pascal, Blaise, 72 et seq. 

Pavin, Lac, 95 

Peter the Hermit, 62 

Pierrefort, Castle of, 199 

Plateau des Mille Vaches, 12 

Poitiers, 281 

Polignac, 70, 179 et seq. 

Pont de Bredons, Notre Dame de, 

147 
Pope Urban II., 62 
Port, Notre Dame du, 59 et seq. 
Pre de la Guerre, Legend of, 129 
Puy de Dome, 1 4- 1 7 et seq. 
Puy de Menton, 84 
Puy, Notre Dame du, 168 et seq. 
Puy de Pariou, 54 
Puy de Ville-Dieu, Legend of, 194 



19 



290 



AUVERGNE AND ITS PEOPLE 



R 

Radegonde, Saint, 282 et seq. 

Saint, Chapel of, 7 

Raimbaut, Louis, 149 
Renan, Ernest, 74 
Resigade, Jean de, 203 
Richard Cceur de Lion, 1 14 
Riom, 51 

Riom-es-Montagne, 124 
Rocamadour, 267 et seq. 
Roche Blanche, 36 
Romagnat, 26 
Roque-Gageac, La, 276 
Royat, 77 



Sable, 4 

Saint Amable, 5 1 et seq. 

Amadour, 269 

Antonin, 141 

Austremoine, 67-87 et seq. 

Avit, 64-66 

Bonnite, 160 

Emilion, 279 

Florus, 186 

Front, 162 

Gatien, 8 

Georges, 162 et seq. 

Geraud, 209 et seq. 

Gerbert, 215 et seq. 

Hippolyte, 132 

Julien of Brioude, 155 

L£ger, 137 

Leobard, 7, 237 

Martial, 165 

Martin of Tours, 6 

Mary, 130, 149, 261 

Michel, 129 

Privat, 264 

Radegonde, 7. 282 et seq. 

Saturnin, 43 

Sidonius Apollinaris, 15, 

et seq. 

Suaire, Le, 277 

Theodechilde, 250 et seq, 

Verney, 25 

Veronica, 268 

Vosy, 165 



Saint- Amand, 43 

Cernin, 237 

Emilion, 279 et seq. 

Flour, 186 et seq. 

Etienne, Castle of, 209 

Hippolyte, 132 

Julien-au-Bois, 264 

Laurent, Church of, 178 

Malo, 2 

Mary-le-Cros, 149 

Michel, Chapel of, 178 

Pardoux, 109 

— ■— Paulien, 162 

Pierre, Cathedral of, 282 

Privat, 264 

Saturnin, 43 

Salers, 239 et seq. 
Sand, George, 9 et seq. 
Sarlat, 274 

Sarrasins, Ruisseau des, 124 

Senectaire, Marie de, 221 

Senectere, Bishop, and the Hugue- 
nots, 174 

Sens, Convent of, 260 

Sidonius Apollinaris, Saint, 15, 64 
et seq. 

Solesmes, Monastery of, 4 et seq. 

Sorel, Agnes, 190 

Soulivia, Goddess, 269 

Superstitions of Cantal, 127 

of Correze, 86-92 

Sylvestre II., Pope, 215 



Talaru, Catherine de, 54 
Temple of Diana, 178 

of Lug, 18 

of Mercury, 18 

Theodechilde, Saint, 250 et seq. 
Tournemine, Castle of, 236 
Tournoel, Castle of, 54 
Tours, 6, 64 

Tr^mouille, Antoine Philippe de la, 3 



U 



Urban II., Pope, 62 



INDEX 



291 



Vallee Tenebreuse, 267 
Valois, Marguerite de, 200 
Vassivieres, 82 et seq. 
Ventadour, Castle of, 119 
Vercingetorix, 17-28 et seq. 
Vermenouze, 222 et seq. 
Verney, Saint, 25 
Veronica, Saint, 268 
Veyre, Guy de, 219 
Vic-sur-Cere, 230 
Vierge a l'Oiseau, 53 
Ville-Dieu, 192 et seq. 



Vitre, 2 

Vosy, Saint, 165 



W 
Were-Wolves, 49 
Wheel of Fortune, 193 
of Wax, 53 



Zaccheus, 268 et seq. 



PRINTEO BY 

TURNBULL AND SPEARS, 

EDINEUROH 



lI— M ". 



to- 




